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KEK Rill  HARLAN 


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H^fS 


TO 

EDMUND    CLARENCE    STEDMAN, 

EXCEPT     FOR    WHOSE     COUNSEL    AND    ENCOURAGEMENT  THIS    BOOK 
WOULD    NEVER    HAVE    BEEN   WRITTEN,    IT  IS    NOW    GRATE- 
FULLY AND   AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


THE 

Yoke  of  the  Thorah 


0     »   ,    •■     ' 
1       >       >    » 


BY 

SIDNEY    LUSKA 

(HENRY   HARLAND) 
AUTHOR  OF    "as  IT  WAS  WRITTEN,"    '*MRS.    PEIXADA,"   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
STREET  &  SMITH,  Publishers 

238  William  Street 


Copyright,  1896, 
By  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  CO. 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  STREET  &  SMITH 


THE  YOKE  OF  THE  THORAH. 


'    >o,        O    -         » 


I. 


IT  was  the  last  day  of  November,  1882.  The  sun 
had  not  shone  at  all  that  day.  The  wind, 
sharp-edged,  had  blown  steadily  from  the  north- 
east. The  clouds,  leaden  of  hue  and  woolly  of 
texture,  had  hung  very  close  to  the  earth.  Weath- 
er-wise people  had  predicted  snow — the  first  snow 
of  the  season  ;  but  none  had  fallen.  Rheumatic 
people  had  had  their  tempers  whetted.  Impres- 
sionable people,  among  them  Elias  Bacharach,  had 
been  beset  by  the  blues. 

Elias  had  tried  hard  to  absorb  himself  in  his  work  ; 
but  without  success.  His  colors  would  not  blend. 
His  brushes  had  lost  their  cunning.  His  touch  was 
uncertain.  His  eye  was  false.  At  two  o'clock  he 
had  given  up  in  despair,  and  sent  his  model  home. 
Then  he  sat  down  at  the  big  window  of  his  studio, 
and  looked  off  across  the  tree-tops  into  the  lower- 
ing north.  A  foolish  thing  to  do.  It  was  a  cheer- 
less prospect.  In  the  clouds  he  could  trace  a  hun- 
dred sullen  faces.     The  tree-tops  shivered.     The 


f<^^i)i() 


2  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

whistling  wind,  the  noises  of  the  street,  the  drone 
of  a  distant  hand-organ,  mingled  in  dreary,  enerva- 
ting counterpoint.  His  own  mood  darkened. 
Though  he  had  every  reason  to  be  contented — 
though  he  had  youth,  art,  independence,  excellent 
health,  sufficient  wealth,  and  not  a  care  in  the  world 
— he  was  neryous  and  restless  and  depressed.  The 
elem^iUs/were  to  blame.  Under  gray  skies,  which 
of  us  hasnot'ha^  pretty  much  the  same  experience? 
•/^y:4nd;by.:^,lias  got  up. 
'  ''"  I'll  go  out,"  he  said,  ''  and  walk  it  off." 

He  went  out.  For  a  while  he  walked  aimlessly 
hither  and  thither.  But  walking  did  not  bring  the 
hoped-for  relief.  He  and  the  world  were  out  of 
tune.  The  men  and  women  whom  he  passed  were 
one  and  all  either  commonplace  or  ugly.  The 
sounds  that  smote  his  ears  were  inharmonious. 
The  wind  sent  a  chill  to  his  bones  ;  besides,  it 
bore  a  disagreeable  odor  of  petroleum  from  the 
refineries  across  the  river.  ^'  I  might  as  well — I 
might  better — have  remained  within-doors,"  was 
his  reflection.  Presently,  however,  he  found  him- 
self in  Union  Square.  This  reminded  him  that  there 
was  a  little  matter  about  which  he  wanted  to  see 
Matthew  Redwood,  the  costumer.  Elias  had  lately 
read  Mistral's  ''Mireio."  The  poem  had  fired  his 
enthusiasm.  He  was  bent  upon  making  Mireio  the 
subject  of  a  picture.  But,  he  had  asked  himself, 
what  style  of  costume  do  the  Provengal  peasant 
women  wear .?  He  had  determined  to  consult  Red- 
wood.    Now,  being  in  Redwood's  neighborhood, 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH,  3 

he  would  call  upon  the  old  man,  and  state  the  ques- 
tion. 

Redwood's  place  was  just  below  Fourteenth 
Street,  on  Fourth  Avenue.  The  house  had  for- 
merly been  a  dwelling-house.  In  the  process  of 
its  degeneracy,  it  had  most  likely  passed  through 
the  boarding-house  stage.  At  present  it  was  given 
over  without  reserve  to  commerce.  A  German 
drinking-shop  occupied  the  basement,  impregnating 
the  air  round  about  with  a  smell  of  stale  lager  beer. 
Redwood  used  the  parlors — large,  lofty  apartments, 
with  paneled  walls  and  frescoed  ceilings — and  the 
floors  above.  The  frescoes,  of  course,  dated  from 
the  dwelling-house  epoch.  Their  hues  were  sadly 
faded.  Here  and  there,  in  patches,  the  paint  had 
peeled  off.  Three  pallid  cupids,  wretchedly  out  of 
drawing,  floated  around  the  plaster  medallion  from 
which  the  gas  fixture  depended.  Elias  never  en- 
tered here  without  thinking  of  the  curious  secrets 
those  cupids  might  have  whispered,  if  they  had  been 
empowered  to  open  their  painted  lips.  What 
scenes  of  joy  and  sorrow  had  they  not  looked  down 
upon  in  the  past  ?  Merry-makers  had  danced 
beneath  them  ;  women  had  wept  beneath  them  ; 
lovers  had  wooed  their  mistresses  beneath  them  ; 
what  else  ?  The  intimate  inner  life  of  a  family,  of 
a  home,  had  gone  on  beneath  them.  How  many 
domestic  quarrels  had  they  watched  ?  How  many 
weddings  ?  How  many  funerals  ?  What  strange 
stories  had  they  not  overheard  ?  Of  what  strange 
doings  had  they  not  been  mute  witnesses?     Be- 


4  THE   YOKE   OF   THE   THORAH. 

tween  the  windows  stood  a  tall  pier-glass.  Its  gilt 
frame  was  chipped  and  tarnished.  A  milky  film, 
like  that  which  obscures  the  eyes  of  an  aged  man, 
had  gathered  over  its  surface.  The  quicksilver 
was  veined,  like  a  leaf.  It  had  a  very  knowing 
look,  this  ancient  mirror,  as  though,  if  it  had 
chosen,  it  could  have  startled  you  with  ghostly 
effigies  of  the  forms  and  faces  that  it  had  reflected 
in  by-gone  years.  Elias  Bacharach,  who  enjoyed 
having  his  fancy  stirred,  was  always  glad  of  an  ex- 
cuse to  drop  in  at  Redwood's. 

Elias  climbed  Redwood's  stoop,  and  opened  the 
door.  It  had  been  dark  enough  outside.  Inside 
it  was  darker  still.  It  took  a  little  while  for  Elias's 
eyesight  to  accommodate  itself  to  the  change. 
Then  the  first  object  of  which  it  became  conscious 
was  the  sere  and  yellow  pier-glass  between  the 
windows.  Far  in  its  mottled  depths — down,  that 
is  to  say,  at  the  remotest  and  darkest  end  of  the 
room — he  saw  Matthew  Redwood,  the  gostumer,  in 
conversation  with  a  young  girl.  The  young  girl's 
face,  a  spot  of  light  amid  the  surrounding  shadows, 
had  an  instantaneous  and  magnetic  effect  upon 
Elias  Bacharach's  gaze.  He  quite  forgot  his  old 
friends,  the  cupids.  Turning  about,  and  drawing 
as  near  to  the  couple  as  discretion  would  warrant, 
he  made  the  young  girl  the  victim  of  a  fixed,  eager 
stare. 

She  was  worth  staring  at.  From  under  the  brim 
of  her  bonnet  escaped  an  abundance  of  golden  hair 
— true  golden  hair,  that  gleamed  like  a  mesh  of  sun- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH,  5 

beams.  In  rare  and  beautiful  contrast  to  this,  she 
had  a  pair  of  luminous  brown  eyes,  set  like  living 
jewels  beneath  dark  eyebrows  and  a  snowy  fore- 
head. Add  a  rose-red,  full-lipped  mouth,  white 
teeth,  and  faintly  blushing  cheeks  ;  and  you  have 
the  elements  from  which  to  form  a  conception  of 
her.  She  was  chatting  vivaciously  with  the  master 
of  the  premises.  In  response  to  some  remark  of 
his,  she  laughed.  Her  laugh  was  as  crisp,  as  mer- 
ry, as  melodious,  as  a  chime  of  musical  glasses. 
Who  could  she  be,  and  what,  Elias  wondered.  Prob- 
ably an  actress.  Few  ladies,  unless  actresses,  had 
dealings  with  the  costumer,  Redwoodo  Yet,  at  the 
utmost,  she  was  not  more  than  seventeen  years  old  ; 
and  her  natural  and  unsophisticated  bearing  seemed 
in  no  wise  suggestive  of  the  green-room.  Ah  !  now 
she  was  going.  "  Good-by,"  Elias  heard  her  say, 
in  a  voice  that  started  a  quick  vibration  in  his 
heart  ;  and  next  moment  she  swept  past,  within  a 
yard  of  him,  and  crossed  the  threshold,  and  was 
gone.  For  an  instant,  never  so  delicate  and  im- 
palpable a  perfume,  shaken  from  her  apparel, 
lingered  upon  the  air.  Elias  stood  still,  facing  the 
door  through  which  she  had  disappeared. 

"  Ah,  good-day,  Mr.  Bacharach  ;  what  can  I  do 
for  you  ? "  old  Redwood  asked,  coming  up  and 
offering  his  hand. 

"  You  can  tell  me  who  that  wonderful  young  lady 
is,"  it  was  on  the  tip  of  Elias's  tongue  to  reply  :  but 
he  stopped  himself.  Without  clearly  knowing  why, 
he  was  loth  to  reveal  to   another  the  interest  and 


6  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

the  admiration  that  she  had  aroused  in  him.  He 
was  afraid  that  his  motive  might  be  misconstrued, 
afraid  of  compromising  his  dignity,  of  appearing 
too  easily  susceptible  in  the  old  man's  eyes.  So  he 
put  down  his  curiosity,  and  began  about  Mireio, 
demanding  enlightenment  on  the  score  of  Provengal 
costumes. 

"  Provencal  costumes,"  the  old  man  repeated, 
with  a  twang  that  savored  of  New  Hampshire  ; 
"  South-French,  we  say  in  the  trade.  Why,  cer- 
tainly. I've  got  a  whole  lot  of  lithographs,  that 
show  all  the  varieties.  But  they're  up  to  my  house. 
You  couldn't  make  it  convenient  to  come  and  look 
at  them  there,  could  ye  ?  Then  I'd  lend  you  those 
that  struck  your  fancy." 

"  That's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Elias.  "  Where 
do  you  live  ?  And  when  would  it  suit  you  to  have 
me  call  ? " 

"  I  live  up  in  West  Sixty-third  Street,  No. ; 

and  you  might  drop  in  most  any  evening  after 
dinner — to-night,  if  you've  got  nothing  better  to 
do." 

"  Very  well ;  to-night,  then,"  agreed  Elias,  and 
bade  the  old  man  good  afternoon. 

He  went  back  to  his  studio.  He  had  got  rid  of 
his  blues  ;  but  he  could  not  get  rid  of  his  vision  of 
the  golden-haired  young  lady.  That,  fleeting  as  it 
had  been,  had  photographed  itself  upon  his 
retina.  Again  and  again  he  heard  her  tink- 
ling laughter.  Again  and  again  he  breathed  the 
evanescent,  penetrating  perfume  that  she  had  left 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  7 

behind  her  upon  quitting  the  costumer's  shop. 
Excepting  his  mother,  now  dead,  and  the  models 
whom  he  employed,  Elias  Bacharach  had  never 
known  a  woman,  young  or  old,  upon  terms  of 
greater  intimacy  than  those  required  for  bowing  in 
the  street,  or  paying  one  or  two  formal  calls  a  year. 
Until  to-day,  indeed,  he  had  never  even  seen  a 
woman  whom  he  had  desired  to  know  more  closely. 
But  this  young  girl  with  the  golden  hair  had  taken 
singular  possession  of  his  fancy.  A  score  of  ques- 
tions concerning  her  presented  themselves  for 
solution.  Her  name  ?  He  ran  over  all  the  women's 
names  that  he  could  think  of,  from  Abigail  down 
to  Zillah,  seeking  for  one  that  seemed  to  fit  her 
None  struck  him  as  delicate  or  musical  enough. 
Her  condition  in  life  ?  Was  she,  after  all,  an 
actress  ?  If  so,  at  what  theater  ?  He  did  not  care 
much  for  the  theater  as  a  general  thing  ;  but  if  he 
only  knew  at  which  one  she  performed,  he  would 
certainly  go  to  see  her.  Her  age  ?  Had  he  been 
right  in  setting  it  down  at  seventeen  ?  Where  did 
she  live  ?  Who  were  her  family  ?  Would  he,  Elias 
Bacharach,  ever  come  face  to  face  with  her  again  ? 
What  were  the  chances  of  his  some  time  having  an 
opportunity  to  make  her  acquaintance  ?  Perhaps 
he  knew  somebody  who  knew  her,  and  could  intro- 
duce him  to  her.  Only,  he  was  ignorant  of  her 
name,  and  therefore  powerless  to  institute  inquiries. 
How  stupid  he  had  been  not  to  ask  Redwood  ;  how 
absurdly  timid  and  self-conscious  !  But  it  was  not 
yet  too  late.     He  would  ask  him  at  his  house  in 


S  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH, 

the  evening.  Then,  having  identified  her,  it  might 
be  possible,  by  one  means  or  another,  to  procure  a 
presentation.  Delightful  prospect !  How  he  would 
enjoy  talking  to  her,  and  hearing  her  talk,  and  all 
the  while  feasting  his  eyes  upon  the  delicious  love- 
liness of  her  face  !  He  wondered  whether  her  char- 
acter accorded  with  her  appearance.  Was  she  as 
sweet  and  as  pure  and  as  bright,  as  she  was  beauti- 
ful ?  He  wondered —  But  it  would  take  too  long  to 
tell  all  the  wonderment  of  which  she  was  subject. 
When  evening  came,  Elias  promised  himself,  old 
Redwood  should  gratify  his  thirst  for  information. 


II. 


AT  eight  o'clock  Elias  was  ushered  by  a  maid, 
servant  into  Redwood's  parlor. 
Redwood's  parlor  was  the  conventional  oblong 
parlor  of  the  conventional  New  York  house,  con- 
ventionally furnished  and  decorated.  It  had  white 
walls,  black  walnut  wood-work,  a  gaudily  stenciled 
ceiling,  and  a  florid  velvet  carpet,  into  which  your 
feet  sank  an  inch,  and  which  gave  off  a  faint  but 
acrid  odor  of  dye-stuffs.  For  pictures  there  were 
three  steel  engravings — The  Last  Supper,  The 
Signing  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  The 
Landing  of  the  Pilgrims — all  hung  as  near  to  heaven 
as  the  limitations  of  space  would  allow.  The 
chairs  were  of  mahogany,  upholstered  in  sleek  and 


THE  YOKE  OF   THE   THORAH  9 

slippery  hair  cloth.     Upon  the  huge  sarcophagus 
which  served  for  mantelpiece,  a  gilt  clock,  under  a 
glass  dome,  registered  five  minutes  past  six,  with 
stationary  hands.    This  started  one's  mind  irresisti- 
bly backward,  in  quest  of  the  precise  point  in  time 
at  which  the  clock  had  stopped,  and  set  one   to 
speculating  upon  what  the  condition   of  the  world 
was  then.     Years  ago,  or  only  months  ?   In  summer, 
or  winter  ?     Morning  or  afternoon  ?    What  of  mo- 
ment was  happening  then  .>     Who  was  President  ? 
Where  was  I,  and  what  doing  ?     Perhaps— it  was 
such  an  old-fashioned  clock— perhaps  I  had  not  yet 
been  born.     In  the  corner  furthest  from  the  window 
there  was  a  square  piano,  closed,  and  covered  by  a 
dark  brown  cloth,  like  a  pall.     Just   above  it,  so 
that  they  could  not  be  reached  except  by  standing 
upon  it,  some  book-shelves  were  suspended.     These 
contained  the  "Arabian  Nights,"  "  The  History  of 
the  Bible,"  Cooper's  novels,  and  an  old  edition  of 
the  "New  American    Cyclopedia."     Beneath   the 
chandelier  stood  a  center  table,  with  a  top  of  varie- 
gated   marbles.     This    bore   a   student's   lamp,    a 
Russia  leather  writing  case,  an  ivory  paper  knife,  a 
photograph  of  Mr.  Emerson,  and  half  a  score  of 
books.     The    literature    of    the  center   table  was 
rather  more  seasonable  than  that  of  the  hanging 
shelves.     Greene's  "  Short  History  of  the  English 
People,"  "  The  Victorian    Poets,"    "  Society  and 
Solitude,"  and  the  "  Poems  of  Dante  Gabriel  Ros- 
setti,"    testified  that    somebody    had  modern    in- 
stincts, testimony  which  was  corroborated  by  an 


10  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

open  copy  of  "Adam  Bede,"  laid  face  downward 
upon  the  sofa.  Elias  wondered  who  somebody 
might  be. 

Presently  old  Redwood  entered,  in  dressing- 
gown  and  slippers.  He  carried  a  large  bundle 
under  his  arm. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  "  are  the  plates  I  spoke  of. 
Run  them  over,  and  pick  out  those  that  please  ye." 

The  examination  of  the  plates  occupied  perhaps 
a  quarter-hour.  When  it  was  finished,  Elias 
thanked  the  old  man,  and  began  to  make  his  adieux. 
Then,  abruptly,  as  though  the  question  had  but 
just  occurred  to  him,  "  Oh,  by  the  way,"  he  inquired, 
in  a  tone  meant  to  be  careless  and  casual,  **  can  you 
tell  me  who  that  young  lady  was — the  young  lady  I 
saw  down  at  your  place  this  afternoon  ? " 

"  Young  lady  ?  "  queried  Redwood,  with  a  blank 
look,  scratching  his  chin,  and  knitting  his  brow. 
"  Down  to  my  place  ?     What  young  lady  ? " 

"  Why,  a  young  lady  with  golden  hair.  You 
were  talking  to  her  when  I  came  in." 

"  Oh,  with  golden  hair — oh,  yes."  The  blank 
look  gave  way  to  an  intelligent  and  slightly  quiz- 
zical one.     *'  But  why  do  you  want  to  know  ? " 

**  She's  such  a  remarkable  bit  of  coloring,"  ex- 
plained Elias  ;  "  the  finest  I've  seen  this  long  while. 
I'd  give  my  right  hand  to  be  allowed  to  paint  her." 

"  Your  right  hand  !  Rather  a  high  offer  that, 
ain't  it?" 

"  Well,  but  there's  not  much  danger  of  its  being 
accepted." 


THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH.  II 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Redwood,  reflectively,  "  I'm 
not  so  sure," 

"What?"  cried  Elias.  The  syllable  did  duty 
for  expletive  and  interrogatory  at  the  same  time. 

"  I  say  I'm  not  sure  but  it  might  be  managed." 

Breathlessly  :     "  But  what  might  be  managed  ?  " 

Redwood's  meaning  was  clear  enough  ;  but  it 
seemed  to  Elias  too  good  and  too  surprising  to  be 
true.  So  he  chose  to  have  it  set  forth  in  terms  of 
positive  affirmation. 

"  Why,  what  are  we  talking  about  ?  But  she 
might  be  got  to  sit  for  ye." 

"You  don't  say  so?     Are  you  serious?    How?" 

"  Well,  we're  pretty  well  acquainted,  she  and  I. 
I  might  propose  it  to  her." 

«  Do — do,  by  all  means.  But  is  there  any  likeli- 
hood of  her  consenting  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  I  guess  she'd  consent — that  is,  if  I 
ur^ed  her." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  will  urge  her,  won't  you  ?  " 

The  old  man  closed  one  eye,  and  twirled  his 
mustache.  "  Hum  ;  that  depends.  You  must  make 
it  worth  my  while." 

"  Worth  your  while  ?  "  faltered  Elias,  surprised, 
and  somewhat  shocked,  at  discovering  old  Red- 
wood to  be  so  mercenary.  "  Well — well,  what  do 
you  want  ?  " 

"  I  want — let  me  see.  Well,  I  guess  I  want  the 
picture.  You  must  make  me  a  present  of  the 
picture." 

"  Oh,  come  ;  that's  unreasonable.*' 


12  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH, 

*'  I  thought  you  said  you'd  give  your  right  hand. 
I  shouldn't  have  much  use  for  that.  So  I'll  take 
your  handiwork,  instead.'" 

"  That  was  a  figure  of  speech.  I'll  pay  a  fair 
price,  though.     Name  one  that  will  satisfy  you." 

**  I've  just  done  so." 

"  Oh,  but  that's  ridicule  us." 

**  Well,  that's  the  only  price  I'll  talk  about.  And 
I'll  tell  you  this,  besides  :  she  never'll  sit  for  you 
at  all,  unless  I  advise  her  to.  She  sets  great  store 
by  my  opinion.  You  promise  me  the  picture,  and 
I'll  guarantee  you  her  consent." 

"  It's  asking  a  great  deal.  It's  asking  far  too 
much." 

**  All  right.     Then  say  no  more  about  it." 

<(  But—" 

"  Oh,  you  can't  beat  me  down,  Mr.  Bacharach. 
When  I  say  a  thing,  I  mean  it.  You'll  only  waste 
your  breath,  trying  to  haggle  with  me.  The  picture, 
or  nothing — those  are  my  terms." 

Elias's  eyes  were  full  of  the  young  girl's  beauty  ; 
his  ears  still  rang  with  the  music  of  her  laughter  ; 
the  prospect  that  old  Redwood  held  out  was  such 
an  unexpected  and  such  a  tempting  one  :  "  So  be 
it,"  he  said  impulsively.  "  You  shall  have  the 
picture." 

"  It's  a  bargain,"  cried  Redwood.  "  Shake  on 
it."  After  they  had  shaken  hands :  "  When 
would  you  like  to  begin  ?  " 

"  At  once — as  soon  as  possible." 

"  I'll  ask  her  to  fix  an  early  day." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  13 

"  But  are  you  sure  ?  Is  there  no  chance  of  her 
refusing  ?  " 

"  Now,  haven't  I  given  you  my  word  ?  What 
you  afraid  of  ?  The  sittings,  of  course,  will  be  had 
at  her  residence,  not  in  your  studio." 

"  Oh,  of  course.  Just  as  she  chooses  about  that. 
Is — is  she  an  actress  ?  " 

"  An  actress  !  "  The  old  man  laughed.  "  Bless 
you,  no  !  What  put  that  idea  into  your 
head  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  she  might  be. 
But  her  name — you  haven't  told  me  her  name." 

"  Her  name — Excuse  me  a  minute,"  said  Red- 
wood. 

He  stepped  to  the  door,  stuck  his  head  into 
the  hall,  and  called  at  the  top  of  his  voice, 
"  Chris  ....  tine  !  " 

*^Yes." 

The  word  tinkled  musically  in  the  distance. 

"  Come  down  here  to  the  parlor,  will  ye  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

Elias's  pulse  bounded.  Did  he  indeed  recognize 
the  voice  ?  What  a  ninny  he  had  been  making  of 
himself !  How  inordinately  dense,  not  to  have 
guessed  their  relationship  from  old  Redwood's 
assurance  in  answering  for  her.  He  felt  awkward 
and  embarrassed  ;  and  yet  he  felt  a  certain  excite- 
ment that  was  not  at  all  unpleasant. 

"  Mr.  Bacharach,  permit  me  to  make  you  ac- 
quainted with  my  daughter.  Miss  Christine  Red- 
wood," said  the  old  man. 


14  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

Elias  bowed,  but  dared  not  look  at  her  to  whom 
he  bowed.  He  heard  her  bid  him  a  silvery  good- 
evening.  Then  he  stole  a  side  glance.  Yes,  it  was 
she,  she  of  the  golden  locks. 

"  Ha-ha-ha  !  "  roared  old  Redwood.  ''  Quite  a 
surprise,  eh,  Mr.  Bacharach  ?  " 

'*  A — a  delightful  one,  I'm  sure,"  stammered 
Elias. 

"  Well,  now,  then,  sit  down,  sit  down,  both  of 
you,"  the  old  man  rattled  on.  ''  That's  right. 
There,  now  we  can  proceed  to  business.  Chris, 
Mr.  Bacharach  here,  an  old  customer  of  mine,  is  a 
painter,  an  artist — with  an  especial  eye  to  fine  bits 
of  coloring,  hey,  Mr.  Bacharach  ?" 

"  Oh,"  Christine  responded  softly,  her  eyes 
brightening,  and  the  pale  rose  tint  deepening  a  little 
in  her  cheeks  ;  ''  are  you  the  Mr.  Bacharach  who 
painted  that  beautiful  picture  of  Sister  Helen  at 
the  last  exhibition  ?  " 

*'  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  call  it  beautiful,"  said 
Elias,  immensely  surprised  and  flattered  to  find 
himself  thus  recognized  by  his  work  ;  especially 
flattered,  because  he  spoke  sincerely  when  he 
added,  ''  I  myself  was  discouraged  about  it.  It's 
so  entirely  inadequate  to  the  poem,  you  know." 

**  Why,  it  didn't  seem  so  to  me.  On  the  contrary 
I  never  quite  appreciated  the  poem  till  I  saw  your 
picture — never  quite  felt  all  the  terror  of  it.  I 
think  you  made  it  wonderfully  vivid.  I  remember 
how  she  bent  over  the  fire,  and  how  fierce  her  eyes 
were,  and  how  her  hair  streamed  down  her  breast 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  15 

and  shoulders  ;  and  then,  the  great,  dark  room, 
and  the  balcony,  and  the  moonlight  outside  !  Oh, 
I  liked  the  picture — I  can't  tell  you  how  much." 

*'  Well,"  broke  in  old  Redwood,  "  you  two  seem 
to  be  old  friends.  I  don't  see  as  there  was  much 
use  of  my  introducing  you.  But  what  I  should 
like  to  know  is,  who  was  it  a  picture  of  ?  Whose 
Sister  Helen  ? " 

"Why,  Rossetti's,"  explained  Christine,  laughing. 
"  The  heroine  of  one  of  Rossetti's  poems," 

''  Oh,  so,"  said  the  old  man,  with  an  inflection  of 
disappointment. 

"Are  you  fond  of  Rossetti,  Miss  Redwood.^" 
Elias  asked.  "  I  noticed  you  had  his  volume  on 
the  table,  when  I  came  in." 

"  Oh,  I  adore  him.  Don't  you  ?  I  think  it's  the 
most  beautiful  poetry  that  ever  was  written — 
though,  to  be  sure,  I  haven't  read  all.  But  I  don't 
know  any  body  else  that  agrees  with  me — unless 
you  do.  Now,  my  father,  for  instance.  I  was 
reading  one  of  the  sonnets  aloud  to  him  this  very 
evening — just  before  the  bell  rang.  He — what  do 
you  suppose  ?  He  laughed  at  it,  and  called  it 
rubbish." 

"  I  did,  for  a  fact,"  admitted  Redwood.  "  I  can't 
get  the  hang  of  that  rigmarol.     It's  too  mixed  up." 

"  Well,  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  everything 
Rossetti  has  written,"  said  Christine  ;  "  not  every 
single  line.  But  that's  my  fault,  not  his.  Some- 
times he's  so  very  deep.  But  the  sonnet  I  read  to 
you  to-night — it  was  the  one  about  work  .and  will 


1 6  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

awaking  too  late,  to  gaze  upon  their  life  sailed  by, 
Mr.  Bacharach — that  wasn't  the  least  bit  difficult." 

"  Well,"  Redwood  confessed,  "  I  like  a  poet  who 
talks  the  English  language  straight.  Shakespeare's 
good  enough  for  me,  and  Longfellow.  But  Chris, 
here,  she  goes  in  for  all  the  modern  improvements, 
especially  poetry.  One  day  I  found  her  purse  lying 
on  the  parlor  table.  Think,  s's  I,  I'll  open  it,  to 
put  in  a  little  surprise.  By  George,  sir,  it  was 
stuffed  out  to  bursting  with  slips  of  poetry  cut  from 
the  newspapers  !  And  then,  aestheticism  !  Oscar- 
Wildism,  I  call  it.  She's  caught  that,  I  don't  know 
where  ;  and  she's  got  it  bad.  Actually,  she  wanted 
me  to  disfigure  the  hard  finish  of  these  walls,  here, 
with  one  of  those  new-fangled,  aesthetic  papers. 
But  the  Lord  blessed  me  with  some  hard  sense  ; 
and  so  we  manage  to  keep  things  pretty  much  as 
they  air." 

"  Air  "  was  Redwood's  way  of  pronouncing  "  are," 
when  he  wished  to  be  emphatic. 

"  My  father,"  observed  Christine;  "  is  a  deep- 
dyed  conservative,  in  music,  literature,  politics,  art, 
and  every  thing  else  except  costumes.  In  the  mat- 
ter of  costumes,  I  believe,  he's  very  nearly  abreast 
of  the  times." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  except  costumes,"  cried  Red- 
wood. "  The  science  of  costuming  is  a  branch  of 
archaeology.  So  that  don't  count.  But  look  at 
here,  Chris.  What  you  suppose  Mr.  Bacharach 
and  I  have  just  been  talking  about  ?    Guess." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  17 

"  About — ?    Oh,  I  can't  guess.     I  give  it  up." 

"  About  you." 

"  Me  ? " 

"  You." 

"  I  hope  he  told  you  nothing  bad  about  me,  Mr. 
Bacharach." 

"Oh,  we  weren't  discussing  your  character. 
Men  don't  gossip,  you  know.  We  were  talking 
about  having  your  portrait  painted.  I've  made 
arrangements  with  Mr.  Bacharach  to  have  him 
paint  your  portrait." 

"  Oh  !  "  Christine  exclaimed.  Her  brown  eyes 
opened  wide,  and  her  cheeks  reddened  slightly. 

"And  the  question  is,"  Redwood  pursued, 
"  when  will  you  give  him  the  first  sitting  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  is  for  you  to  say,  father." 

"Well,  then,  I  say  Sunday  morning.     How  does 
that  strike  J^'^/^,  Mr.  Bacharach  ?" 
•   "  Oh,  any  time  will  be  agreeable  to  me,"  replied 
Elias. 

"  Well,  Chris,  shall  we  make  it  Sunday  morn- 
ing?" 

"  Just  as  you  please." 

"  All  right.  Note  that,  Mr.  Bacharach.  Sunday 
morning,  December  third.  I  suppose  you'd  better 
send  your  apparatus — easel,  and  so  forth — in 
advance,  hadn't  ye  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I'll  send  them  to-morrow." 

"  That  settles  it.  And  now,  Chris,  listen  to  me. 
I  want  to  tell  you  a  good  joke.  Perhaps  you  didn't 
notice,  but  when  you  were  down  to  the  shop  this 


1 8  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAIL 

afternoon,  Mr.  Bacharach  here,  he  came  in  ;  and 
he — "  And  to  the  unutterable  confusion  of  Elias, 
the  merciless  old  man  proceeded  to  tell  his  daugh- 
ter the  whole  story.  He  wound  up  thus  :  *'  And, 
actually,  Chris,  he  took  you  to  be  an  actress. 
What  you  scowling  at  me  for  ?  He  did,  for  a  fact. 
He  can't  deny  it.  Didn't  you,  Mr.  Bacharach  ? 
Didn't  you  ask  me  if  she  wasn't  an  actress  ? " 

Elias  appealed  to  Christine. 

"  Your  father  is  very  cruel,  isn't  he.  Miss  Red- 
wood ?  " 

*'  He  loves  to  tease,"  she  assented.  Then,  with 
a  touch  of  concern,  "  You  mustn't  feel  badly.  He 
never  means  to  hurt  any  body's  feelings,"  she  added, 
and  looked  earnestly  into  Elias  Bacharach's  face. 
That  look  caused  him  a  sensation,  the  like  of  which 
he  had  never  experienced  before.  His  lip  trem- 
bled. His  breath  quickened.  His  heart  leaped. 
"  Thank — thank  you,"  he  said,  with  none  but  the. 
most  confused  notion  of  what  he  said,  or  why  he 
said  it. 

Pretty  soon  he  took  his  leave. 

Elias  dwelt  in  East  Fifteenth  Street.  The  house 
faced  Stuyvesant  Park.  In  this  house,  March  22, 
1856,  Elias  had  been  born.  In  this  house.  May  13, 
1856,  Elias's  father  had  died.  In  this  house,  alone 
with  his  mother  and  her  brother,  the  Reverend  Dr. 
Felix  Gedaza,  rabbi  to  the  Congregation  Gates  of 
Pearl,  Elias  had  lived  till  he  was  twent5^.four  years 
old.     Then  his  mother,  too,  had  died.     Since  then, 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  19 

he  and  the  rabbi  had  kept  bachelor's  hall.  It  was  a 
large,  old-fashioned,  red-brick  house,  very  plain  and 
respectable  of  exterior,  and  very  bare,  sombre  and 
silent  within.  Elias  had  converted  the  front  room 
on  the  top  floor  into  a  studio.  Thus  he  had  a  north 
light  and  a  wide  view.  In  his  childhood  this  room 
had  been  his  play-room.  During  his  boyhood  it 
had  been  his  bed-room.  Now  it  was  his  work-room 
— consequently  his  living-room,  in  the  most  vital 
sense  of  the  word.  Its  four  walls  had  watched  him 
grow  up.  The  view  from  its  window  had  been  his 
daily  comrade,  ever  since  he  had  been  old  enough 
to  have  any  comrade  at  all.  In  a  manner,  it  had 
been  his  confidant  and  his  counselor,  too.  It  was 
his  habit,  whenever  he  had  any  thing  on  his  mind, 
to  station  himself  at  that  window,  and  look  off 
across  the  park,  and  think  it  out.  Hither  he  had 
come  in  sickness  and  in  health,  in  joy  and  in  sor- 
row, in  the  blackest  moments  of  his  discouragement, 
in  the  brightest  moments  of  his  hope.  Here  he  had 
solved  many  a  doubt,  confronted  many  a  disap- 
pointment, built  many  an  air-castle,  registered  many 
a  vow.  He  was  twenty-six  years  old.  Not  a  phase 
or  episode  of  his  development,  but  was  associated 
in  his  memory  with  that  view. 

Here,  returning  from  Redwood's  on  the  last  night 
of  November,  1882,  he  sat  down,  and  abandoned 
himself  to  a  whole  set  of  new  emotions  that  had 
been  let  loose  in  his  heart.  He  did  not  understand 
these  emotions  ;  he  did  not  try  to  understand  them. 
If  he  had  understood  them,  he  might  have  taken 


20  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH. 

measures  to  subdue  them  in  their  inception  ;  and 
then  the  whole  course  of  his  subsequent  Ufe  would 
have  been  altered,  and  this  story  would  never  have 
been  told.  They  were  very  vague,  very  strange, 
very  different  from  any  thing  that  he  had  ever  expe- 
rienced before,  and  very,  very  pleasant.  As  often 
as  he  went  over  the  events  of  the  evening,  recalling 
Christine's  appearance,  and  her  manner,  and  the 
way  she  had  looked  at  him,  and  the  words  that  she 
had  spoken,  he  became  conscious  of  a  sudden,  de- 
licious glow  of  w^armth  in  his  breast.  Then,  when 
he  went  forward  into  the  time  yet  to  come,  and  be- 
gan to  paint  her  portrait  in  imagination,  he  had  to 
draw  a  long  breath,  a  deep  sigh  of  pleasure,  so  ex- 
hilarating and  so  fascinating  was  the  outlook.  By 
and  by  he  was  called  back  to  the  present,  by  the 
clock  of  St.  George's  church  tolling  out  midnight. 
He  started,  rose,  stretched  himself,  went  to  bed. 
But  an  hour  or  two  elapsed  before  he  got  to  sleep. 
Christine's  golden  hair  and  lustrous  eyes  lighted  up 
his  dreams. 


III. 


SUNDAY  came  ;  and  with  it  a  warm  sun,  a  blue 
sky,  a  soft,  southerly  breeze.  It  was  one  of 
those  days,peculiar  to  our  climate, which,though  they 
may  fall  in  the  middle  of  winter,  bear  the  fragrance 
of  April  upon  their  breath,  and  resuscitate  for  a 
moment  in  one's  heart  all  the  keen  emotions  dead 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  21 

since  last  spring-time.  Elias  presented  himself  at 
the  Redwood  house  shortly  after  nine  o'clock. 
Christine  smiled  upon  him,  and  gave  him  a  warm 
little  hand  to  press.  Her  father  asked,  "  How 
about  costume  ?  Want  her  to  make  up  ?  "  Elias 
said,  "  Oh,  no  ;  what  she  has  on  is  perfect."  Thai 
was  a  simple  gown  of  some  dark  blue  stuff,  con- 
fined at  the  waist  by  a  broad  band  of  cardinal  rib- 
bon. Her  golden  hair  was  caught  in  a  loose  knot 
behind  her  ears.  Elias  set  up  his  easel  in  the 
parlor.  Then  he  began  the  process  of  posing  the 
model.  This  called  for  nice  discrimination,  and 
was  productive  of  much  mirthful  debate.  At  last 
it  was  finished. 

"Now,"  said  old  Redwood,  'Uhis  is  altogether 
too  fine  a  day  for  me  to  spend  cooped  up  in  the 
house.  I'll  leave  you  two  young  folks  to  take  care 
of  each  other.  I'm  going  to  read  my  newspaper  in 
the  park.  Sunday  don't  come  more  than  once  a 
week,  you  understand.  By-by,  Chris.  So  long, 
Mr.  Bacharach." 

He  went  off. 

For  a  while  Elias  worked  in  silence.  So  great 
was  the  pleasure  that  he  got  from  studying  this 
young  girl's  beauty,  and  endeavoring  to  transfer 
the  elements  of  it  to  his  canvas,  that  he  never 
thought  of  how  heavily  the  time  might  lag  for  her. 
But  all  at  once  it  occurred  to  him. 

"  Why,"  he  reflected,  "  I'm  treating  her  for  all 
the  world  as  if  she  were  a  paid  model.  This  won't 
do.     I  must  try  to  amuse  her." 


2  2  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

Then  he  sought  high  and  low  for  something  to 
say,  something  that  would  be  at  once  appropriate 
and  entertaining.  In  vain.  His  wits  seemed  to 
have  deserted  him,  his  mind  to  have  become  a  total 
and  hopeless  blank.  In  order  readily  and  happily 
to  manufacture  polite  conversation,  one  must  have 
had  experience.  Elias  had  had  none.  Now,  in 
despair,  he  saw  himself  reduced  to  taking  refuge  in 
the  weather. 

**  This — er — has  been  an  unusually  mild  fall.  Miss 
Redwood,"  he  ventured. 

*'  Yes,  very,"  she  acquiesced. 

*'  But  the  summer — that  was  a  scorcher,  wasn't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  dreadful,"  she  assented. 

"  You  spent  it  in  the  country,  I  suppose  ? " 

**0h,  no  ;  we  staid  in  the  city." 

"  Ah,  did  you  ?     So  did  I." 

*'  Indeed  ? " 

''Yes." 

He  waited  for  her  to  go  on,  but  she  did  not  go 
on.  With  a  sense  of  deep  discouragement,  he  con- 
cluded that  he  had  entered  a  cul-de-sac.  He  must 
begin  anew,  and  upon  another  topic. 

Presently,  "  I  hope  you  are  not  getting  tired,"  he 
said.     ''  Don't  hesitate  to  rest  as  often  as  you  like." 

*'  Oh,  thank  you,  no  ;  I'm  not  tired  yet,"  she 
answered. 

"  Generally,"  he  announced,  standing  off,  closing 
one  eye,  and  taking  an  observation  over  the  end  of 
his  crayon,  ''  generally  people  who  aren't  used  to  it, 


THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH.  23 

find  sitting  very  irksome  ;  and  even  regular  models, 
whose  business  it  is,  want  to  get  up  every  now  and 
then,  and  stretch  themselves.  But  the  painter  him- 
self never  wearies." 

"  Because  he  is  so  interested  in  his  work,  I  sup- 
pose ? " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Why,  sometimes,  of  a  sum- 
mer day,  I've  painted  for  thirteen  or  fourteen 
hours  at  a  stretch — from  dawn  till  sunset — and 
then  only  been  sorry  that  I  could  paint  no  more." 

"It  must  be  delightful  to  have  an  occupation 
like  that — one  that  is  a  constant  source  of  pleasure. 
It's  the  same,  isn't  it,  with  all  kinds  of  artists — 
with  musicians  and  sculptors  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  writers.  I  know  a  man  who  is  a 
writer — writes  stories  and  poems  and  that  sort  of 
thing — and  his  wife  says  she  has  to  use  main  force 
to  get  him  to  leave  his  manuscripts.  Writers  have 
the  advantage  of  painters  in  one  respect — they 
don't  need  daylight.  Indeed,  I  think  many  of 
them  like  lamp-light  better.  The  lamp  is  sort  of 
emblematic  of  their  calling,  just  as  the  palette  is  of 
ours.  I  have  read  somewhere  of  quite  a  celebrated 
novelist — I  forget  his  name  —  an  Englishman,  I 
believe — who  shuts  his  blinds,  and  lights  the  gas, 
and  works  by  gaslight  even  in  broad  day.  That's 
curious,  isn't  it  ?  " 

'*  And  foolish,  besides ;  because  they  say  it's 
very  unhealthful  and  very  bad  for  the  eyes.  I 
should  think  his  novels  would  be  awfully  morbid." 

"  I  used  to  paint  by  gaslight  when  I  was  at  the 


24  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH, 

League.  But  I  don't  any  more.  It  doesn't  pay. 
In  the  daytime  your  colors  all  look  false  and  un- 
wholesome— hectic — as  if  they  had  the  consump- 
tion. Of  course,  if  you're  merely  sketching,  or 
working  in  black  and  white,  it's  different." 

"  Did  you  study  at  the  League  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  and  also  under  Stainar,  in  his  studio." 

*'  Stainar  ?     At  Paris  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  in  New  York.  What  little  I  know  I 
have  learned  here  in  New  York." 

"  Why,  I  thought  every  body  had  to  study 
abroad — at  Paris  or  Munich  or  Diisseldorf." 

''  They  don't  exactly  have  to.  You  can  get  very 
good  instruction  here.  Stainar  is  a  capital  master  ; 
and  there  are  others.  Of  course,  it's  desirable  to 
study  abroad,  too.  But  I  couldn't  very  well.  I 
have  never  been  further  than  fifty  or  a  hundred 
miles  from  this  city  in  my  life." 

"  Why,  how  strange  !  I  haven't  either.  But 
then,  I'm  a  girl.  You're  a  man.  I  should  think 
you  would  have  traveled." 

''  It  was  on  account  of  my  mother.  She  was  a 
great  stay-at-home  ;  and  I  never  felt  like  leaving 
her.  Since  her  death — two  years  ago — I  haven't 
had  any  wish  to  travel.  I  haven't  had  the  heart 
for  it." 

After  a  little  pause,  Christine  asked  softly, 
"  Have  you  any  brothers  or  sisters  ?  " 

"  No,  none.  And  my  father  died  when  I  was  a 
baby.     So,   except  for  me,  my  mother  was  quite 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  25 

alone.     To  be  sure,  she  had  my  uncle,  the  rabbi ; 
but  he's  not  much  company." 

"  Oh,  have  you  an  uncle  who  is  a  rabbi  ?  " 
i«  Yes— Dr.  Gedaza,  of  the  Congregation  Gates 
of  Pearl,  in  Seventeenth  Street." 

**  How  interesting  !     Tell  me,  what  is  he  like  ?  " 
«*  Why,  I  don't  know.     How  do  you  mean  ? " 
"  What  does  he  look  like  ?    And  his  character  ? " 
"  Well,  he's  a  little  old  gentleman,  a  widower. 
He  wears  spectacles,  and  he's  got  a  bald  head. 
He  knows  an  awful  lot  of  theology,  but  in  point  of 
worldly  wisdom  he's  as  deficient  as  a  child.     Some- 
times he's    fairly   good-natured,    sometimes  very 
severe.     Generally  he's  absent-minded— up  in  the 

clouds." 

"  Has  he  a  long  white  beard  ?  " 

<♦  He  has  a  beard  ;  but  it's  neither  long  nor 
white.  It's  short  and  black— though  there  may  be 
a  few  white  hairs  scattered  through  it.  There 
ought  to  be,  considering  his  age.  He's—  Let  me 
see.  He's  ten  years  older  than  my  mother  ;  and 
she  was  thirty  years  older  than  I.  That  would 
make  him  sixty-six." 

"  I  have  never  seen  a  rabbi ;  but  I  always  thought 
they  had  long  white  beards,  and  wore  gowns,  and 
looked  mysterious  and  awe-inspiring,  like  astrolo- 
gers  or  alchemists." 

"  There's  nothing  mysterious  about  my  uncle," 
said  Elias,  laughing,  "  unless  it  be  his  prodigious 
learning;  and  nothing  awe-inspiring,  except  his 
temper.    That's  pretty  quick.     He  wears  an  or- 


26  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

dinary  black  coat  and  white  cravat,  like  a  Prot- 
estant minister's.  You'd  take  him  for  a  Protestant 
minister  if  you  should  pass  him  in  the  street." 

"  And  he  isn't  at  all  patriarchal  or  pictur- 
esque ? " 

"  Alas,  no  ;  not  that  I  have  been  able  to  dis- 
cover." 

"  Oh,  dear  ;  how  disappointing  !  " 

After  another  little  pause,  Christine  said  :  "  I 
haven't  any  brothers  or  sisters,  either  ;  and  my 
mother  died  when  I  was  three  years  old  ;  and  my 
father  is  a  great  home-body,  too.  Isn't  it  strange 
that  our  lives  should  have  been  so  much  alike  ? 
Only,  you're  a  man  and  an  artist  ;  and  I'm  a  girl 
and  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  keep  house.  I  wish 
I  loved  housekeeping  as  you  do  painting.  But  I 
don't ;  I  hate  it." 

"That's  too  bad.  But  then,  it  doesn't  take  up 
all  your  time,  and  it  doesn't  cause  you  such  an  end- 
less deal  of  worry  and  discouragement  as  painting 
does.  You  have  plenty  of  time  left  in  which  to 
read,  and  see  your  friends,  and  enjoy  life." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't.  You  have  no  idea  how  many 
miserable  little  things  there  are  to  be  done.  And 
we  only  keep  one  servant.  And  she's  so  stupid 
that  I  have  to  be  standing  over  her  all  day  long. 
It's  like  a  regular  business — almost." 

She  had  thrown  a  good  deal  of  feeling  into  these 
utterances  ;  had  emphasized  them  by  bending  for- 
ward, and  lifting  her  face  toward  her  hearer's  ;  r.nd 
by  this  time  she  was  completely  out  of  pose. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  37 

Didn't  she  think  she'd  like  to  rest  a  little  now  ? 
Elias  asked. 

She  thought  she  would  like  to,  for  a  few  minutes, 
she  said  ;  and  getting  up,  she  crossed  over  and 
looked  at  Elias's  canvas.  All  she  could  see  were  a 
few  straggling  charcoal  lines. 

**  Oh,"  she  queried,  "  is  that  the  way  you  begin  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  must  sketch  every  thing  in  in  black,  first." 
.     "  But  how  long  will  that  take  ? " 

"  That  depends  upon  how  often  you  let  me 
come." 

'*  Well,  if  you  come  every  Sunday  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  will  take  three  or  four  weeks — may  be 
more." 

"  And  then,  how  long  before  the  picture  will  be 
finished  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  exactly  ;  but  if  we  only  have  one 
sitting  a  week,  probably  not  till  spring." 

*'  Oh,"  she  said,  and  said  it  with  an  inflection 
which  Elias  construed  to  be  that  of  disappointment. 

*'  Why,  did  you  wish  to  have  it  finished  earlier  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  don't  care  about  that.  I  wasn't 
thinking  of  that,"  she  answered,  but  still  with  an 
inflection  which  made  Elias  feel  that  her  content- 
ment had  been  disturbed.  He  wondered  whether 
he  had  said  any  thing  indiscreet,  any  thing  to 
hurt  or  to  offend  her.  He  could  remember  noth- 
ing. 

She  resumed  her  pose.  He  could  not  have  told 
what  it  was,  but  there  was  something  in  her  bearing 


28  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

which  prompted  him  to  ask  :  "  Is  the  position  un- 
comfortable ?  "  and  to  urge  :  "  Don't  sit  any  more 
to-day,  if  you  would  rather  not." 

**  Oh,  no  ;  the  position  isn't  uncomfortable.  I'd 
just  as  soon  sit,"  was  her  reply,  in  the  same  un- 
happy tone  of  voice. 

Now,  what  could  the  matter  be  ?  What  had  hap- 
pened to  annoy  her  ? 

"  Please,  Miss  Redwood,"  Elias  pleaded,  *'  please 
be  frank  with  me.  Perhaps  I  am  keeping  you 
from  something  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  dreamily  upon  the  window- 
pane  behind  his  shoulder. 

"  I  was  only  thinking,"  she  confessed  in  a  slow, 
pensive  manner,  ''  of  what  a  beautiful  day  it  is,  and 
that  " —  She  stopped  herself. 

"  And  that—" 

"That's  all.     Nothing  else." 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  was.  Please  tell  me.  And 
that—?" 

"  And  that — now  the  winter  is  upon  us — that  we 
shan't  have  many  more  like  it.     There." 

"  Ah,  I  see  !  And  you  were  longing  to  be  out  of 
<ioors,  enjoying  it.     No  wonder." 

She  colored  up  and  began  protesting. 

"  Oh,  really,  Mr.  Bacharach  ;  no,  indeed — " 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  were.  No  use  denying  it.  And 
so  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I've  done  a  good  morn- 
ing's work  already.  And,  I  propose  that  we  go 
and  join  your  father  in  the  park — if  you  know  where 
to  find  him  ?  " 


THE    YOKE  OF    THE    T HO  RAH.  29 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  where  to  find  him.  Shall  I 
put  on  my  things  ?  One  sitting,  more  or  less — if  it's 
going  to  take  so  very,  very  long — won't  count, 
will  it  ?  " 

A  few  moments  later  they  had  entered  the  park, 
and  were  sauntering  down  a  sunlit  pathway.  Chris- 
tine's hair  glowed  like  a  web  of  fine  flames.  Roses 
bloomed  in  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes  sparkled.  She 
vowed  that  there  had  never  before  been  such  a  de- 
licious day.  How  soft  the  air  was,  and  yet  how 
crisp  !  How  sweet  it  smelled  !  How  exquisitely 
the  leafless  branches  of  the  trees,  gilded  by  the  sun- 
shine, were  penciled  against  the  deep  blue  of  the 
sky  !  The  sunshine  transfigured  every  thing.  What 
rich  and  varied  colors  it  brought  out  upon  the 
landscape  !  What  reds,  what  purples,  what  yellows  ! 
Had  Mr.  Bacharach  ever  seen  any  thing  equal  to 
it  ?  Was  it  not  a  keen  pleasure  merely  to  breathe, 
merely  to  exist,  upon  such  a  day  ?  By  and  by  they 
turned  a  corner,  and  came  upon  a  bench. 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Christine,  halting  abruptly, 
**  he's  not  here." 

"  Who  ?  "  Elias  asked. 

"  Why,  my  father." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure  ;  I  had  forgotten.'* 

y^  This  is  his  favorite  bench.  He  always  sits  here. 
Now,  what  can  have  become  of  him  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  has  walked  on  a  little." 

"  I  suppose  he  has.  But  he  can't  have  gone  far. 
He  never  does.     We'll  soon  overtake  him." 


30  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

At  the  end  of  another  quarter  hour,  however, 
they  had  not  yet  overtaken  him. 

"  I'm  afraid  we've  missed  him,"  she  said  ; 
"though  it's  very  strange,  because  he  never  goes 
anywhere  else,  but  just  in  this  direction.  I  think 
we  may  as  well  give  up  the  search.  But  I'm  a  little 
tired,  and  would  you  mind  sitting  down  and  resting 
for  a  moment  before  turning  back  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better  ;  only,  I  must  warn 
you  that  I  haven't  the  remotest  notion  how  we  are 
to  find  our  way  out  of  here.  The  paths  we  have 
taken  have  been  so  crooked,  I've  entirely  lost  my 
reckoning." 

"  Ah,  but  I — I  know  the  park  by  heart.  I  could 
find  my  way  anywhere  in  it,  blindfold,  I  think." 

"  Indeed  ?  How  did  you  get  so  well  ac- 
quainted ?  " 

"  Oh,  we've  lived  within  a  stone's  throw  of  it  all 
my  life.  When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  used  to  play 
here.  Then  I  had  to  cross  it  twice  a  day,  when  I 
went  to  the  Normal  College.  And  since  then  I've 
made  a  practice  of*  taking  long  walks  here  every 
afternoon.  There's  scarcely  a  tree  or  stone  that 
I'm  not  familiar  with  ;  and  I've  discovered  lots  of 
delightful  little  places — nooks  and  corners — that 
nobody  else  suspects  the  existence  of.  Sometime 
I'd  like  to  show  you  some  of  them.  They'd  be 
splendid  to  paint." 

By  this  time  they  were  seated. 

"  Oh,   thank   you,"     said   Elias,   *'  that   will   be 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  31 

charming.  And  so,  you  went  to  the  Normal  Col- 
lege ? " 

"  Yes  ;   I  graduated  there  last  spring." 

"  Graduated  !  Why,  I  shouldn't  have  thought 
you  were  old  enough  !  " 

"  How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?  " 

*'  Seventeen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  ever  so  much  older.     Guess  again." 

"  Eighteen,  then  ?  " 

"  I'll  be  nineteen  in  January — January  third — 
just  one  month  from  to-day." 

"Mercy!  You're  very  venerable,  to  be  sure. 
And  then,  having  graduated  from  the  Normal  Col- 
lege, what  an  immense  deal  of  wisdom  you  must 
possess,  too  !  " 

She  laughed  as  gayly  as  though  he  had  perpe- 
trated a  rare  witticism  ;  and  then  said,  "  No,  se- 
riously, I  never  learned  much  at  the  Normal  Col- 
lege— I  mean  in  the  classes — except  a  lot  of 
mathematics  and  Latin,  which  I've  forgotten  all 
about  now.  I  learned  a  little  from  the  other  girls, 
though.  Some  of  them  were  wonderfully  intelligent 
and  cultivated  ;  and  they  put  me  on  the  track  of 
good  books  and  such  things.  Shall  we  start  home 
now  ? "  (They  rose  and  began  to  retrace  their  steps.) 
"Tell  me,  Mr.  Bacharach,  what  is  the  one  book 
which  you  like  best  of  all  ?" 

"  That's  rather  a  hard  question.  Suppose  I  were 
to  put  it  to  you,  could  you  answer  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  think  '  Adam  Bede  '  is  the  greatest 
book  that  was  ever  written." 


32  THE    YOKE  OF  THE   THORAH. 

**  That's  saying  a  vast  deal,  isn't  it  ? " 
"  Well,  of  course,  I  mean  the  greatest  book  of  its 
kind — the  most  vivid  and  truthful  picture  of  real 
deep  feeling.  I  wasn't  thinking  of  scientific  books, 
or  essays,  or  histories,  like  Spencer,  or  Emerson, 
or  Macaulay.  I  mean,  it  pierces  deeper  into  the 
heart,  than  any  other  book  that  I  have  read." 
**  Have  you  ever  read  *  Wilhelm  Meister  } '  " 
"  No.  I  was  going  to,  though.  One  of  the  girls 
lent  me  a  copy— Carlyle's  translation.  She  said  it 
was  splendid.  But  when  my  father  saw  it  he  made 
me  give  it  back.  He  holds  very  old-fashioned 
ideas  of  literature,  you  know  ;  and  he  says  that 
Goethe  is  demoralizing.  His  taste  in  music  is  old- 
fashioned,  too.  He  never  wi/l  take  me  to  hear 
good  music.  It  bores  him  dreadfully.  He  likes  to 
go  to  grand  sacred  concerts  on  Sunday  evening, 
where  they  play  Strauss  and  Offenbach,  and  then 
at  the  end  *  Home,  Sweet  Home.'  Strauss  and 
Offenbach  and  even  *  Home,  Sweet  Home  '  are  very 
well  of  their  kind  ;  but  one  tires  of  them  after  a 
while,  don't  you  think  so  ?  I  haven't  been  at  a 
Symphony  or  Philharmonic  for  more  than  a  year." 
"  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  rehearsals  ?  " 
"  Why,  he  won't  take  me  to  the  rehearsals,  any 
more  than  to  the  concerts." 

"  But  you  can  go  to  them  alone.  They're  in  the 
afternoon." 

"  Oh,  but  I  can't  bear  to  hear  music  alone.  I 
I  must  have  somebody  with  me,  or  else  I  don't 
enjoy  it  at  all.  I  always  want  somebody  to  nudge, 
when  the  music  is  especially  thrilling  ;  don't  you  ?  '* 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  33 

"  Yes,  one  longs  for  a  sympathetic  neighbor," 
Elias  admitted  ;  and  thought  in  his  own  soul,  "  I 
wish  the  old  man  would  deputize  me  ;  it  must  be 
exceedingly  pleasant  to  be  nudged  by  her  little 
elbow." 

When  they  had  reached  the  house,  Christine 
asked  him  whether  he  wouldn't  come  in  for  a  little 
while  ;  and  he  replied  that  he  guessed  he  would, 
for  the  purpose  of  putting  away  his  paraphernalia, 
which  he  had  left  cluttering  up  the  parlor.  Inside 
they  found  old  Redwood,  who  explained  that  he 
had  departed  from  his  custom  that  morning,  and 
chosen  quite  a  different  quarter  of  the  park  for  his 
outing.  Elias  stowed  his  things  under  the  piano. 
As  he  was  doing  so,  a  bell  rang  below  stairs. 

"  Dinner,"  announced  the  old  man.  ''  Come,  Mr. 
Bacharach." 

Elias  began  to  make  his  excuses. 

"  Oh,  none  o'  that !  "  the  old  man  cried,  grasping 
Elias's  arm.  "  Come  down  and  take  pot-luck  ; 
and  may  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite." 

Pretty  soon  Elias  found  himself  installed  at  Red- 
wood's table,  with  Christine  beaming  upon  him 
from  one  end,  and  the  old  man  carving  a  turkey  at 
the  other. 

"  Well,  I  declare,  Chris,  this  is  quite  jolly,  ain't 
it .''  To  have  company  to  dinner  !  We  two — she 
and  I,  Mr.  Bacharach — we  generally  dine  alone  ; 
and  as  we've  told  each  other  about  all  either  of  us 
knows,  time  and  time  again,  we  don't  find  it  par- 
ticularly lively  ;    do  we,  Chris  ?     Now,  Mr.  Bach- 


34  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

arach,  I  know  that  you  Israelites — excuse  me — you 
foreigners — don't  drink  ice-water  with  your  meals  ; 
but  as  I  haven't  got  any  wine  to  offer  you,  I'll  send 
out  for  some  beer.     Mary  !  " 

The  maid  appeared  ;  and  old  Redwood  instructed 
her  to  purchase  a  quart  of  beer  at  the  corner  liquor 
store. 

"  You'll  have  to  go  in  by  the  side-door,  Mary, 
because  it's  Sunday.  And  if  any  policeman  should 
ask  what  you've  got  in  the  pitcher,  tell  him  it's  milk. 
Don't  be  afraid.  If  he  takes  you  up,  I'll  go  bail 
for  you.     Ha-ha-ha  !  " 

"•Father ! "  cried  Christine,  with  a  glance  at  once 
beseeching  and  reproachful. 

*'  Beer,"  the  old  man  continued,  moderating  his 
hilarity,  and  adopting  a  commentative  tone,  "  beer 
is  a  great  drink,  mild,  refreshing,  wholesome.  And 
it's  done  a  sight  of  good  for  temperance,  too — more 
than  all  your  total  abstinence  orators  and  blue-rib- 
bonites  put  together.  I'm  very  fond  of  it,  and 
always  drink  it  with  my  lunch,  down -town.  There's 
a  saloon  just  under  my  shop.  But  Chris  there,  she 
can't  abide  it,  on  account  of  the  bitter.  She  likes 
wine — and  wine — not  being  a  capitalist — I  call  an 
extravagance." 

*'  Yes,"  said  Christine,  "  I  think  wine  is  perfectly 
delicious  ;  and  so  pretty  to  look  at,  with  its  deep 
red  or  yellow.  Once  a  friend  of  father's  sent  us  a 
whole  box  of  wine — Rhine  wine — and " 

"And,"  old  Redwood  interrupted,  **and  that 
innocent  appearing  young  woman  there,  sir,  she  dis- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  35 

posed  of  every  blessed  drop  of  it ;  she  did.  for  a 
fact.     What  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,"  protested  Christine,  blushing  beau- 
tifully, "  you  ought  not  to  say  such  a  thing.  Mr. 
Bacharach  might  believe  you." 

"  Well,  any  how,  I  wish  we  had  some  of  it  left  to 
offer  you,  Mr.  Bacharach,"  said  Redwood.  "  But 
here  comes  the  beer." 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  put  in  Elias,  addressing  him- 
self to  Christine,  "did  you  know?  They're  going 
to  give  the  *  Damnation  of  Faust '  at  the  Symphony 
rehearsal  Friday  afternoon — the  great  work  of  Ber- 
lioz.    Have  you  ever  heard  it  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  I  have  heard  selections  from  it.  I 
wish  " — bringing  her  eyes  to  bear  upon  her  father 
— "  I  wish  I  could  go." 

"  Well,  why  don't  ye  ?    Who's  to  prevent  ye  ? " 

"Will  you  take  me?" 

"  Not  I.  But,  Great  Scott,  what's  the  use  of 
being  a  pretty  young  girl  if  you've  got  to  drag  your 
aged  father  around  after  you  ?  Why  don't  you  get 
some  young  man  ?  I'll  bet  there  are  twenty  young 
fellows  in  this  town,  who'd  only  be  too  glad.  But 
she,  Mr.  Bacharach,  she  scares  them  all  away,  with 
her  high  and  mighty  manners.  She's  too  par- 
ticular. She'll  die  an  old  maid,  mark  my 
words."  ^ 

Elias  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  golden  opportunity. 

"I  wish,  Miss  Redwood,  I  wish  you  would  go 
with  me,"  he  ventured,  a  little  timidly,  and  waited 
anxiously  for  her  response. 


36  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH 

"  There  you  are,  Chris ! "  cried  her  father. 
"  There's  your  chance  !  But  " — turning  to  Elias — 
*'but  she  won't.     You  see  if  she  will." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Bacharach  ?  That's  lovely. 
I'll  go  with  the  very  greatest  pleasure." 

Her  eyes  lighted  up  ;  and  leaving  her  seat,  she 
ran  around  the  table,  and  deposited  a  wholly  irrele- 
vant kiss  upon  her  father's  forehead. 

"  Ha-ha-ha  !  "  laughed  that  gentleman,  clapping 
his  hands.  *'  You're  the  first  young  fellow  I've 
seen,  Mr.  Bacharach,  who  she  thought  was  good 
enough  for  her.  By  George,  Chris,  there's  hope  for 
you,  after  all." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Christine,  "  I'm  so  glad.  I  never 
wanted  any  thing  more  in  my  life,  than  I  did  to  hear 
the — the — it  sounds  awfully  profane,  doesn't  it  ? — 
*  Damnation  of  Faust.'  " 

"  Well,  now,"  said  the  old  man,  "  there's  nothing 
like  killing  two  birds  with  one  stone.  So  what  I 
propose  is  this  :  I  propose  that  you  come  up  here 
Friday  forenoon,  Mr.  Bacharach  ;  and  then  you  can 
work  for  a  while  at  her  portrait.  Afterward  she'll 
give  you  a  bite  of  lunch — won't  ye,  Chris  ? — and  you 
can  tote  her  off  to  the  concert.  By  the  way,  where 
does  it  take  place  ?     At  the  Academy  ?  " 

"No  ;  at  Steinway  Hall." 

"  And  when  does  it  let  out  ?  " 

*'  At  about  half-past  four,  I  think." 

"  All  right.  Then  I'll  meet  you  at  the  door  when 
it's  over — my  shop,  you  know,  is  just  around  the 
corner — I'll  meet  you  at  the  door  and  save  you  the 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  37 

trouble  of  bringing  her  home.     How  does  that  suit, 
eh  ?  " 

"  Very  well,"  said  Elias  ;  but  he  thought  that  he 
should  not  have  minded  the  trouble  of  bringing  her 
home. 

When  he  returned  to  the  quiet,  dark  house  on 
Stuyvesant  Square,  late  that  afternoon,  he  sat  down 
at  the  big  window  of  his  studio,  and  went  over  the 
happenings  of  the  day.  He  felt  wonderfully  light- 
hearted,  wonderfully  elated,  as  though  he  had 
drunken  of  some  subtle  stimulant.  What  a  pleasant, 
interesting  city  New  York  was,  after  all  !  How 
thoroughly  one  could  enjoy  one's  self  in  it  !  The 
noises  of  it,  mingling  in  a  confused,  continuous 
rumble,  and  falling  upon  his  ears,  sounded  like  the 
voice  of  a  good  old  friend.  It  was  an  old  friend's 
face  that  greeted  him,  as  he  looked  out  upon  the 
bare  trees  in  the  park.  Every  now  and  then  he  drew 
a  deep,  tremulous,  audible  breath.  The  colors  faded 
from  the  sky.  Dusk  gathered.  The  bell  of 
St.  George's  Church  rang  to  vespers.  The  street 
lamps  were  lighted.   It  got  dark.   Elias  did  not  stir. 

*'  Oh,  what  a  sweet,  natural,  beautiful  girl  !  "  he 
was  soliloquizing.  "  And  what  a  rough  old  bear  of 
a  father  !  And  what — what  a  heavenly  time  we'll 
have  on  Friday  !  " 

He  marveled  at  himself,  it  gave  him  such  a 
swift,  exultant  thrill  to  think  of  Friday  ;  but  the 
obvious  psychological  explanation  of  it,  he  never 
once  suspected. 


38  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH, 


IV. 


I'^OWARD  the  close  of  Friday's  sitting  Elias 
said  :  ''  You  know,  Berlioz  has  taken  great 
liberties  with  Goethe's  text — quite  altered  the 
story,  indeed,  and  given  it  an  ending  to  suit  him- 
self." 

"  That  won't  matter  much  to  me,"  responded 
Christine,  *'  because  I've  never  read  '  Faust,'  and 
I  have  only  the  vaguest  notion  of  what  the 
story  is." 

''  Did  it  suffer  a  like  fate  to '  Wilhelm  Meister's  ?'" 

"  No  ;  but  I  can't  read  German,  and  I  didn't 
know  whether  there  was  any  good  translation.  Is 
there  ? 

*'0h,  yes;  Bayard  Taylor's  is  beautiful.  You 
ought  to  read  it." 

"  Then,  besides,  I  had  an  idea  that  it  was  very 
deep  and  obscure — very  hard  to  understand.  Do 
you  think  I  could  understand  it?  " 

'^  I'm  sure  you  could — all  that's  essential.  You 
could  get  the  story  and  the  human  nature.  I 
believe  you'd  find  it  even  more  moving  than  *  Adam 
Bede.'  " 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  the  story  ?  Won't  you  tell  it 
to  me  now  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  I  should  only  spoil  it." 

But  Christine  begged  him  to  give  her  the  outline 
of  it,  pleading  that  she  would  enjoy  the  music  so 
much  more  intelligently  if  she  were  not  altogether 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  39 

ignorant  of  the  plot.  So,  during  their  luncheon, 
Elias  related  as  best  he  could  something  of  the  love- 
story  of  Faust  and  Margaret.  Christine  listened 
with  bated  breath,  and  wide  eyes  fastened  upon  his 
face  ;  and  at  its  conclusion  she  drew  a  profound 
sigh,  and  murmured  :     "  Oh,  how  sad,  how  sad  !  " 

"  Now,"  said  Elias,  "  I  must  explain  how  Berlioz 
has  tampered  with  it."     Which  he  proceeded  to  do. 

They  walked  as  far  as  Seventh  Avenue  and 
Fifty-ninth  Street,  where  they  took  the  University 
Place  car.  Elias  thought  he  had  never  been  so 
happy.  It  was  an  exhilaration  merely  to  share  this 
young  girl's  presence,  breathing  the  same  air  that 
she  breathed.  The  sunshine  caught  new  radiance 
from  her  hair.  Lambent  fires  burned  in  her  eyes. 
There  was  no  music  that  Elias  would  rather  have 
heard,  than  the  music  of  her  voice  as  she  talked  to 
him.  They  had  the  car  to  themselves  for  the  first 
few  blocks  ;  but  then  it  began  to  fill  up  with  ladies, 
and  at  last  chivalry  compelled  Elias  to  sacrifice  his 
seat  at  Christine's  side.  He  clung  to  the  strap  in 
front  of  her,  and  looked  down  at  her  ;  and  she 
looked  up  at  him  ;  and  so,  with  their  glances,  they 
communed  together,  very  rarely  opening  their  lips, 
until,  having  reached  Fourteenth  Street,  it  behooved 
them  to  dismount. 

The  music  began.  Christine  sat  forward  in  her 
chair,  and  listened  with  manifest  appreciation. 
But  she  made  no  sign  to  her  companion  till  the 
musicians  had  played,  and  the  chorus  sung,  the 
first  bar  or  two  of  the  "  Peasants'  Rondo."    Then 


40  THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH. 

she  turned  upon  him  suddenly,  with  eyes  dilated 
and  lips  apart,  and  drew  a  quick  breath,  and 
uttered  an  ecstatic  little  "  Oh ! "  The  syllable 
sped  straight  to  his  heart,  and  started  an  un- 
familiar palpitation  there.  From  that  moment 
until  the  concert  was  terminated,  both  of  these 
young  people  were  in  Heaven  ;  she,  thanks  to  the 
marvelous  music,  which  seized  hold  of  her,  and 
bore  her  away,  like  a  blossom  upon  its  bosom  : 
he,  thanks  to  the  beautiful  girl  who  was  seated 
next  to  him,  and  whose  eyes  kept  smiling  into  his, 
and  whose  breath  for  one  priceless  second  fell 
upon  his  cheek.  Every  most  trifling  incident  of 
that  afternoon  somehow  engraved  itself  upon 
Elias  Bacharach's  memory.  Long  afterward  he 
recalled  it  all  :  how  Christine  was  dressed,  the 
shape  of  her  bonnet,  the  color  of  her  gloves,  the 
fragrance  of  the  rose  that  she  wore  in  her  breast ; 
how  he  had  wrapped  her  cloak  about  her  shoulders 
when  she  complained  of  a  draught  ;  how  she  had 
beat  time  with  her  fan  when  the  students  sang 
their  drinking  song,  and  laughed  when  Brander 
sang  the  ballad  of  the  rat,  and  looked  grave  when 
Gretchen  sang  "  There  was  a  King  in  Thule,"  and 
started,  and  paled,  and  caught  her  breath,  and  put 
her  hand  impulsively  upon  Elias's  arm,  when  Faust 
and  Mephistopheles  began  their  tempestuous  ride 
into  hell.  He  remembered  it  all,  in  exceeding  bit- 
terness of  spirit.  He  would  have  followed  Faust's 
example,  and  pledged  his  soul  to  eternal  bondage, 
gladly,   eagerly,    if  by   doing    so    he    could    have 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  41 

won  back  the  possibilities  of  that  vanished  after- 
noon. 

Old  Redwood  met  them,  as  he  had  promised,  on 
the  curbstone  in  front  of  the  exit. 

"  You'd  better  come  up  town  and  dine  with  us, 
Mr.  Bacharach,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  yes;  do,  please,"  urged  Christine. 

"I  wish  I  could,"  said  Elias ;  "but,  unfortu- 
nately, I  must  go  home.  The  concert  has  lasted 
longer  than  I  thought  it  would  ;  and  now  they — 
my  uncle,  I  mean — will  be  expecting  me  at  home. 
Good-by." 

Christine  gave  him  her  hand.  He  watched  her 
till  she  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  crowd.  It  had  cost 
him  a  pang  to  separate  himself  from  her.  Now,  as 
he  saw  her  departing  further  and  further  away,  it 
was  like  the  gradual  extinction  of  the  light  and 
the  warmth  and  the  beauty  of  the  day.  His  heart 
sank.  A  lump  began  to  gather  and  ache  in  his 
throat.     He  turned  about  and  walked  slowly  home. 

Crossing  his  own  threshold,  he  shivered,  as  one 
might  upon  entering  a  tomb.  Somehow,  his  house 
seemed  darker,  bleaker,  bigger,  and  more  cheerless 
than  it  had  ever  seemed  before.  It  was,  as  it  always 
was,  intensely  silent.  His  footstep  upon  the  marble 
floor  of  the  hallway  resounded  sharp  and  metallic. 
He  joined  the  rabbi  in  the  latter's  study.  They 
exchanged  a  few  quiet  words  of  greeting,  and  then 
sat  motionless,  without  speaking,  as  though  wait- 
ing for  something  to  happen.  The  daylight  slowly 
faded.     By  and  by  a  star  could  be  made  out,  shim- 


42  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    T HO  RAH. 

mering  through  the  window.  Both  of  these  men 
rose  to  their  feet,  and  put  on  their  hats.  The  rabbi 
lighted  a  candle,  and,  with  hands  uplifted,  intoned 
a  blessing  over  it  in  Hebrew.  With  the  candle 
flame  he  lighted  the  gas.  Then,  picking  up 
a  bulky  calf-bound  volume  from  the  table,  he 
began  to  read  aloud  from  the  Thorah,  also  in 
Hebrew.  Elias  paid  scant  heed.  He  heard  the 
rabbi's  voice  rise  and  fall  in  sonorous  periods  ;  but 
his  heart  and  his  mind  were  elsewhere. 

"  Now,  Elias,"  said  the  rabbi  suddenly,  "  you 
read  on  from  where  I  have  left  off." 

He  handed  Elias  the  book,  pointing  with  his 
finger  to  the  place.  Elias  took  it,  and  read  me- 
chanically, pronouncing  the  words  clearly  enough, 
but  giving  no  attention  to  the  sense  : 

**  *  And  when  the  Lord  thy  God  shall  deliver 
them  before  thee,  thou  shalt  smite  them  and  utterly 
destroy  them  ;  thou  shalt  make  no  covenant  with 
them,  nor  show  mercy  unto  them.  Neither  shalt 
thou  make  marriages  with  them ;  thy  daughter 
thou  shalt  not  give  unto  his  son,  nor  his  daughter 
shalt  thou  take  unto  thy  son.  For  they  will  turn 
away  thy  son  from  following  me,  that  they  may 
serve  other  gods  ;  so  will  the  anger  of  the  Lord  be 
kindled  against  you,  and  destroy  thee  suddenly. 
But  thus  shall  ye  deal  with  them  :  Ye  shall  destroy 
their  altars,  and  break  down  their  images,  and  cut 
down  their  groves,  and  burn  their  graven  images 
with  fire.  For  thou  art  an  holy  people  unto  the 
Lord  thy  God  ;  the  Lord  thy  God  hath  chosen  thee 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  43 

to  be  a  special  people  unto  himself,  above  all  people 
that  are  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.'  "  * 

''  *  Above  all  people  that  are  upon  the  face  of  the 
earth,'  "  echoed  the  rabbi.     "  Amen." 

With  the  melancholy  December  nightfall  had 
come  the  Jewish  Sabbath. 


V. 

THOUGH  nothing  had  been  said  about  it,  Elias 
took  for  granted  that  the  Redwoods  would 
expect  him  Sunday  morning  ;  and  accordingly, 
in  the  neighborhood  of  nine  o'clock,  he  rang  their 
door-bell.  He  found  them  ready  for  him.  Old  Red- 
wood sat  behind  him  as  he  worked  at  the  portrait, 
and  conversation  was  general  throughout.  They 
asked  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  but  he  was  afraid  of 
abusing  his  welcome,  and  declined.  He  went  home, 
shut  himself  up  in  his  studio,  and  spent  the  after- 
noon thinking  regretfully  of  the  good  time  that  he 
might  have  been  having  if  he  had  only  accepted. 

The  first  post  Monday  morning  brought  him  a 
ticket  for  the  private  view  of  the  Academy  exhibi- 
tion to  be  given  that  evening.  The  ticket  said, 
"Admit  Mr.  E.  Bacharach  and  one."  Elias  went 
to  his  writing-desk,  and,  on  the  spur  of  his  impulse, 
wrote  the  following  note  : 

♦Deuteronomy,  vii.,  2-6. 


44  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

"  No.  —  East  Fifteenth  Street,  Monday. 

**  My  Dear  Miss  Redwood  : — I  wonder  whether 
you  would  care  to  attend  the  private  view  of  the 
coming  exhibition  this  evening  ?  There  will  no 
doubt  be  quite  an  interesting  lot  of  people  there, 
not  to  mention  the  pictures  ;  and  perhaps  it  might 
amuse  you  to  look  in  for  an  hour  or  so.  If  you 
v;ill  say  yes,  I  shall  be  very  glad. 

**  Yours  sincerely, 

"  Elias  Bacharach." 

This  he  inclosed  in  an  envelope,  and  addressed. 
Then  he  sallied  forth  to  the  nearest  messenger 
office,  and  had  it  sent.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
studio  to  await  her  answer. 

But  pretty  soon  he  began  to  repent  what  he  had 
done.  Surely,  upon  such  brief  acquaintance,  he 
had  taken  too  great  a  liberty.  What  sort  of  an 
opinion  would  she  have  of  him  ?  Of  course,  she 
would  say  no  to  his  invitation.  Oh  that  he  could 
recall  the  note — the  rash,  impetuous  note  !  It  was 
too  late  to  do  that ;  and  now  he  must  suffer 
the  consequence  of  his  indiscretion,  which  would  at 
least  be  a  fall  of  great  distance  in  her  esteem.  She 
would  regard  him  as  presumptuous  and  push- 
ing. She  would  laugh  at  him  to  herself,  and  with 
her  father,  to  whom  most  likely  she  would  show 
what  he  had  written.  Perhaps  she  would  imagine 
that  he  was  in  love  with  her — girls  are  notorious 
for  imagining  such  ridiculous  things  upon  such 
slight   provocation.      He,  certainly,   would   never 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  45 

have  the  hardihood  to  look  her  straight  in  the  face 
again.  He  walked  up  and  down  the  floor.  Why 
didn't  the  messenger  bring  her  answer  ?  Though  he 
knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  that  it  would  be  a  snub 
and  a  refusal,  he  was  anxious  to  get  it,  all  the  same. 
Would  the  boy  never  come  ?  Was  he  purposely 
delaying  ?  Taking  a  malicious  delight  in  making 
his  employer  wait  ?  Stopping  upon  some  street- 
corner  to  spin  his  top  ?  Or — or  had  she  simply 
disdained  to  vouchsafe  to  his  request  any  reply 
whatever  ? —  Ah  !  The  door-bell  !  Elias's  heart 
jumped  into  his  mouth.  He  stepped  into  the  hall, 
leaned  over  the  banister,  and  listened. 

He  heard  the  maid  undo  the  chain,  and  open 
the  door.  There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  Then 
he  heard  her  shut  it.  Then,  in  a  voice  tense  for 
excitement,  "  Maggie,"  he  called,  "  is  it  something 
for  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  a  note." 

He  ran  down  stairs,  and  met  the  servant  half-way. 
She  gave  him  the  note.  "  Mr.  Elias  Bacharach, 
No.  —  East  Fifteenth  Street,  N.  Y.  C,"  was  its 
superscription,  in  a  pretty,  girlish  hand.  The 
paper  had  a  faint,  sweet  smell — something  like  jas- 
mine, something  like  mignonnette.  He  carried  it 
back  to  his  studio,  unopened.  There,  having 
closed  the  door,  he  went  to  his  window,  drew  a 
long  breath,  and  with  trembling  fingers  broke  the 
seal.  Could  he  believe  his  senses  ?  Christine's 
note  ran  thus  : 

"Dear  Mr.   Bacharach;  —  Thanks  ever    so 


46  THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH. 

much,  and  I  shall  be  delighted  to  go,  I  have  always 
wanted  to  go  to  a  private  view,  but  have  never 
been.  I  hope  there  are  some  of  your  pictures  to 
be  seen  ;  are  there  ?  You  don't  tell  me  at  what 
hour  to  expect  you  ;  but  I'll  be  ready  at  half-past 
seven.  Sincerely  yours, 

"  Christine  Redwood." 

Elias's  cheeks  burned,  his  fingers  trembled,  his 
temples  throbbed,  he  could  feel  the  blood  leap  in 
his  veins,  as  the  meaning  of  this  document  became 
apparent  to  his  mind.  He  read  it  again  and  again. 
He  brought  it  close  to  his  face,  and  breathed  the 
dainty  perfume  it  exhaled.  The  pleasure  he 
derived  from  doing  this  was  wholly  disproportion- 
ate to  the  sweetness  of  the  scent.  By  and  by  he 
put  it  back  in  its  envelope,  and  deposited  it  in  the 
drawer  of  his  desk.  But  he  did  not  leave  it  there 
long.  In  a  little  while  he  had  it  out,  and  was 
reading  it  again,  and  again  inhaling  its  perfume — 
which,  faint  to  begin  with,  had  now  almost  quite 
evaporated.  Still,  enough  of  it  remained  to  send 
an  electric  tingle  along  his  nerves,  and  to  cast  a 
wonderfully  vivid  image  of  Christine  upon  the 
retina  of  his  mind's  eye.  For  the  rest  of  that  day 
he  was  incompetent.  He  could  not  paint.  He 
could  not  read.  He  could  not  sit  still.  He  could 
only  roam  listlessly  from  place  to  place,  and  wonder 
whether  half-past  seven  would  ever  arrive. 

At  twenty  minutes  past  seven  precisely,  as  he 
learned  from  his  watch,  he  found  himself  at  the 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  47 

foot  of  Redwood's  stoop.  No  :  he  had  traveled 
on  the  speed  of  his  desire  ;  it  would  not  do  to  be 
beforehand.  The  ten  eternal  minutes  that  lay 
between  him  and  the  appointed  time  he  would 
while  away  by  walking  around  the  block.  He 
walked  slowly,  trying  to  calculate  just  how  many 
seconds,  or  fractions  of  a  second,  were  consumed 
by  each  step.  At  last  he  had  regained  his  starting 
point.     He  mounted  the  stoop,  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  parlor  was  empty.  Elias  picked  up  Chris- 
tine's volume  of  Rossetti,  and  absent-mindedly 
turned  the  pages.  Oh,  at  what  a  break-neck  pace 
his  arteries  were  beating. 

Hark  !  He  heard  a  light  footstep  coming  down 
the  stairs.  He  rose.  All  at  once,  it  seemed  to 
him,  there  was  a  burst  of  sunlight  and  oxygen. 
She  had  entered.  She  was  standing  before  him, 
smiling  and  bidding  him  welcome.  She  had  on  a  tiny 
bonnet  of  dark  red  velvet,  under  which  her  golden 
hair,  and  her  lily-white  forehead,  and  her  deep 
brown  eyes,  shone  at  their  best.  She  carried  her 
wrap  over  her  arm — a  fur-lined  circular.  In  her 
left  hand  she  held  her  gloves.  Her  right  she  gave 
to  Elias.  His  heart  fluttered  to  the  verge  of  faint- 
ing as  he  touched  it.  How  small  it  was ;  how 
warm  and  soft  !  How  confidingly  it  seemed  to 
nestle  in  his  !  By  a  mighty  effort  he  subdued  an 
impulse  to  carry  it  to  his  lips  and  kiss  it.  He  had 
no  idea  of  letting  it  go,  and  perhaps  would  have 
continued  to  hold  it  to  this  day,  if  she  by  and  by 
had  not  drawn  it  away. 


48  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

**  Here  are  a  couple  of  roses,"  he  said,  handing 
her  a  tissue-paper  parcel. 

She  took  them,  and  marveled  at  their  loveliness. 
She  fastened  one  to  her  dress,  and  forced  him  to 
wear  the  other  in  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  She  stood 
on  tip-toe  and  pinned  it  there.  The  trimming  of 
her  bonnet  brushed  his  cheek.  It  was  an  instant 
of  intoxication.  He  wondered  whether  she  could 
hear  his  heart  beat. 

**  It  was  kind  of  you  to  say  that  you  would  go. 
I  was  afraid  you  might  not  care  to,"  he  began. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  was  kind  of  you  to  ask  me. 
I  am  very  glad." 

She  sat  down,  and  drew  on  her  gloves.  He  saw 
that  she  was  having  difficulty  in  buttoning  one  of 
them. 

''  Can't  I  help  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

Then  he  held  her  hand,  and  buttoned  her  glove 
for  her,  and  breathed  the  incense  that  rose  from 
the  flower  at  her  breast.  Then  he  wrapped  her  in 
her  circular  ;  and  they  left  the  house.  He  offered 
her  his  arm.  Her  little  hand  perched  like  a  bird 
upon  it. 

"  I  am  so  happy,"  he  said  softly,  and  immedi- 
ately regretted  that  he  had  said  it. 

"  So  am  I,"  she  said,  still  more  softly  ;  and 
straightway  his  regret  died. 

He  looked  into  her  eyes.  Far  down  in  them 
palpitated  a  mystic,  tender  light.  Elias  had  to 
bite  his  tongue  to  keep  from  telling  her  then  and 
there  that  he  loved  her. 


THE    YOKE   CF   THE    THORAH.  49 

At  the  exhibition  he  pointed  out  th6  distinguished 
people  to  her,  and  showed  her  the  pictures  which 
he  thought  were  the  best,  and  was  happy,  happy, 
happy.  Now  and  then  somebody  would  nod  and 
say  :  ''  How  d'ye  do,  Bacharach  ? "  and  cast  an  ad- 
miring glance  at  his  companion,  which  stirred  his 
pride.  Once  a  gentleman  stopped  and  spoke  a  few 
words  to  Christine,  and  won  a  smile  from  her, 
which  pricked  his  jealousy.  He  feared  that  it  was 
not  at  all  the  proper  thing  to  do,  but  he  could  not 
help  asking,  "  A  friend  of  yours  ?  "  "  Oh,  no," 
she  answered  ;  "  only  our  old  drawing  teacher  at 
the  Normal  College."  At  that  he  was  happy  again. 
She  wanted  him  to  lead  her  straight  to  his  own  pic- 
ture at  once.  By  and  by  they  had  reached  it.  The 
subject  was  "  The  Song  of  Deborah."  The 
prophetess  was  represented  as  a  woman  of  about 
fifty  years  of  age,  tall,  stalwart,  imperious- 
looking,  with  iron-gray  hair,  steel-blue  eyes,  and 
a  head  of  stern  and  majestic  beauty.  Christine 
thought  the  coloring  was  superb,  and,  "  ^V^here  did 
you  ever  find  such  a  wonderful  face  ?  "  she  asked. 
*'  It  is  a  face  to  make  you  afraid,  it's  so  strong,  so 
proud  ;  and  yet  it  is  a  face  that  you  could  not  help 
loving  ;  there  is  something  so  good  about  it.  Oh, 
I  like  it  the  best  of  all  the  pictures  here."  Elias 
felt  that  he  had  not  worked  in  vain. 

There  was  a  great  crush  of  people,  and  the  air 
was  close  and  hot,  and  the  few  seats  where  one 
might  rest  one's  self  were  all  occupied  ;  so  pres- 
ently Elias  asked  whether  she  wasn't  tired,  and  she 


50  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

confessed  that  she  was — a  little  ;  and  they  left  the 
building. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  it's  still  early,  and  1  for  one 
am  ravenously  hungry." 

"  Oh,  are  you  ?  That's  too  bad,"  was  her  guile- 
less response.  *'  But  at  home  I  shall  be  able  to  give 
you  " — timidly — "  some — some  cold  turkey." 

"  No,"  he  said;  ''  I  shan't  put  you  to  that  trouble. 
Let's  go  to  a  restaurant." 

And  he  led  her  to  Delmonico's. 

There,  the  momentous  question,  what  they  had 
better  order,  occasioned  much  grave  debate,  and 
resulted  finally  in  the  selection  of  a  sweet-bread 
garnished  by  green  peas.  Elias  thought  that 
Beaune  would  be  the  wine  best  adapted  to  moisten- 
ing a  sweet-bread,  and  accordingly  Beaune  was 
brought,  as  Christine  remarked  curiously,  ''  in  a 
little  basket."  She  applied  herself  to  the  edibles 
with  undisguised  relish  ;  but  all  at  once,  pausing 
and  looking  reproachfully  at  Elias,  she  exclaimed, 
"  Why,  you  said  you  were  ravenously  hungry,  and 
now  you're  not  eating  a  thing  !  "  Indeed,  she 
spoke  the  truth.  His  knife  and  fork  lay  unem- 
ployed beside  his  plate  ;  and  he  was  doing  nothing 
but  gaze  at  her  with  fond,  caressing  eyes. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  he  said,  and  began  to  eat  and 
drink. 

They  chatted  busily  during  the  repast — about  the 
people  who  came  and  went,  about  the  marvelous 
toilets  of  some  of  the  ladies,  about  the  decorations 
of  the   restaurant,  about   the   haughty  mien  and 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  5^ 

supercilious  manner  of  the  French  gentleman  in 
evening  dress  who  served  them,  about  the  view  of 
electric-lighted    Madison    Square   that    they   got 
through  the  window  at  which  they  were  established 
—about  a  thousand  trifles.     Afterward  Elias  pre- 
served but  a  very  dim  remembrance  of  the  words 
that  they  had  spoken.     He  preserved  a  very  vivid 
one  of  Christine's  appearance— of  how  her  eyes  had 
glowed  beneath  her  red  bonnet,  of  how  the  rose  he 
had  given  her  had  shone  like  a  spot  of  flame  in  her 
bosom— and  of  the  bliss  that  he  had  experienced 
in  sitting  opposite  her,  and  watching  the  varying 
expressions  of  her  face,  hearkening  to   the  vary- 
ing  modulations  of  her  voice,  and   realizing  that 
she   was   trusting   herself  entirely   to   his    protec- 
tion. 

Again  by  and  by  he  had  the  privilege  of  helping 
her   on  with   her  circular,  and  of    buttoning  her 
glove.     They  got  into  a  street  car  to  go  up  town. 
The  first  half  of  that  journey  Elias  found  delight^ 
ful.     They  had  to  sit  very  close  together,  to  make 
room  for  other  passengers  ;  and  all  the  while  Elias 
was  conscious  of  the  touch  of  her  shoulder  upon 
his  arm.     But,  as  he  saw  the  end  drawing  near,  and 
knew  that  the   moment  was  not  far  off  when  he 
would  have  to  leave  her,  his  spirits  began  to  sink. 
Why  could  not  the  distance  be  doubled,  trebled  ? 
What  possessed  the  driver  to  race  his  horses  so  ? 
Surely,  street  car  had  never  covered  its  tracks  at 
such  reckless  speed  before.     He  rang  her  door-bell 
for  her,  and  tried  to  harden  himself  to  the  thought 


$2  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

that   in   another    minute   he  would   have    to   say 
good-by. 

Old  Redwood  himself  answered  the  door-bell. 

"  Come  in  for  a  moment,  Mr.  Bacharach,  and  get 
thawed  out,"  he  said. 

Elias  breathed  freely.  Here  was  a  reprieve,  at 
any  rate.  They  went  into  the  back  parlor,  and 
gathered  around  a  cheerful  grate  fire.  Christine 
gave  her  father  an  account  of  the  evening's  doings. 
At  last  Elias  screwed  his  courage  up,  and  tore  him- 
self away.  Christine  went  with  him  to  the  vesti- 
bule.  He  got  hold  of  her  hand,  and  clung  to  it  for 
the  entire  five  minutes  that  it  took  him  to  pronounce 
his  valedictory. 

Body  burning,  brain  whirling,  as  if  with  fever,  he 
walked  home.  A  wild  joy  trembled  in  his  heart ;  a 
wild  pain,  too.  He  loved  her.  To-night,  at  last, 
for  the  first  time,  he  had  recognized  this  very  pal- 
pable and  patent  fact.  He  loved  her.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  about  it.  With  a  sensation  of  genuine 
surprise,  the  simple  fellow  acknowledged  to  himself 
that  he  loved  her — with  genuine  surprise  and  con- 
sternation. Perhaps  some  time  she  might  love  him 
a  little  in  return.  But  even  so,  he  knew  that 
between  her  and  himself  there  yawned  a  gulf, 
fathomless  and  impassable  ;  and  in  spite  of  his 
desire  and  his  passion,  he  cried  out,  "  God  for- 
bid ! "  • 

He  let  himself  into  the  house  with  his  latch-key. 
Through  the  glass  door  of  his  uncle's  study,  at  the 
end  of  the  hall,  he  could  see  that  a  light  was  still 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  53 

burning  within.     He  threw  off  his  hat  and  overcoat, 
and  marched  into  the  rabbi's  presence. 

*'  How  that  good  man  would  start,"  he  thought, 
"  if  he  should  guess  !  " 


VI. 


THE  rabbi's  study  was  a  bare  enough  apartment, 
furnished  with  a  faded  carpet,  three  or  four 
chairs,  and  a  writing  table.  The  walls  and  ceiling 
were  kalsomined  in  slate  color,  the  former  being 
lined  half-way  up  with  book  shelves.  A  student's 
lamp,  with  a  green  shade,  burned  on  the  table. 
The  oil  in  it  must  have  been  pretty  low,  for  it  shed 
but  a  dim  light,  and  gave  off  a  strong,  offensive 
odor.  The  rabbi  sat  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
bending  over  what  looked  like  a  manuscript 
sermon.  The  top  of  the  rabbi's  head  was  perfectly 
bald,  and  it  reflected  the  lamplight  like  a  surface 
of  polished  ivory.  His  little  remaining  hair  and 
his  beard  were  bluish  black.  His  eyes,  behind  thick 
spectacles,  were  black,  too — small,  deep-set,  bright, 
restless  black  beads.  But  his  skin  was  intensely 
white,  as  white  almost  as  the  clerical  collar  that 
encircled  his  throat,  and  it  looked  as  though  it 
would  feel  chilly  to  the  touch,  like  marble.  The 
rabbi  was  a  very  little  man,  short  of  stature,  spare 
of  habit,  with  a  frame  and  with  features  as  slender 
and  as  delicate  as  a  maiden's.  Yet  he  had  not  at 
all  the  appearance  of  a  weakling.     You  felt  at  once 


54  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

the  presence  of  a  strong  will  and  of  an  active,  if 
not  enlightened  or  profound,  intelligence.  You 
felt  the  presence  of  a  person  who  could,  if  he  chose, 
be  sufficiently  good-natured,  but  who  possessed 
also  the  capacity  of  becoming  as  hard  and  as  cold 
as  ice. 

At  his  nephew's  entrance  the  rabbi  glanced  over 
his  shoulder. 

"  Ah,  Elias,"  he  asked,  in  a  tone  which,  though 
amiable,  denoted  very  little  interest,  "  where  do  you 
come  from  ? " 

"  The  Academy  of  Design.  I've  been  at  the 
exhibition." 

"  So  ?     Have  you  any  pictures  there  ?" 

*'  Only  one.     '  The  Song  of  Deborah.'  " 

*'  Ah  !    Is  it  well  hung  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes — on  the  line." 

**  That's  good.  Some  day  I  must  drop  in  and 
see  it." 

On  both  sides  the  dialogue  had  been  perfunc- 
tor}\  Now  there  befell  a  silence.  The  rabbi  re- 
turned to  his  reading.  Elias  sank  upon  a  chair, 
thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  trowsers  pockets,  and 
6xed  his  eyes  upon  the  carpet.  For  a  while  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  was  the 
only  sound. 

All  at  once  Elias  said  :  "  Oh,  yes — I  forgot — I've 
been  at  Delmonico's,  too." 

*'  Ah,"  rejoined  the  rabbi,  *'  eating  trepha  food." 

"  I  ate  neither  pork  nor  shellfish,"  Elias  submit- 
ted.    "  I   ate  a  bit  of  sweet-bread.     Of  course  it 


THE    YOKE  OF  THE   THORAH.  55 

hadn't  been  killed  kosher.  But  is  that  such  a  great 
sin  ?  Some  of  our  most  pious  Jews  go  to  Delmon- 
ico's.  To-night,  indeed,  I  saw  Judge  Nathan  there, 
with  his  wife  and  daughters  ;  and  he's  president  of 
his  congregation." 

"  Small  sins  beget  larger  ones.  It's  better  not 
to  commit  even  peccadillos,"  said  the  rabbi.  *'  And 
eating  trepha  food  isn't  merely  a  peccadillo.  How- 
ever, you're  of  full  age.  It's  not  my  place  to  cal 
you  to  account." 

"  Speaking  of  sins.  Uncle  Felix,"  Elias  presently 
went  on,  **  tell  me,  what  is  the  worst  sin  that  a  Jew 
could  commit  ? " 

The  rabbi's  eyes  had  strayed  back  to  his  m.anu- 
script.     Lifting  them,  "  How  ?  "  he  queried. 

Elias  repeated  his  question. 

"  Why,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  there  are  the  ten  com- 
mandments, which  you  know  as  well  as  I  do. 
They're  of  equal  force.  Theft,  adultery,  murder — 
one  is  as  bad  as  another." 

"  That  isn't  exactly  what  I  meant.  I  meant  the 
worst  sin  which  a  Jew,  as  a  Jew,  could  commit — 
the  worst  infraction  of  the  Thorah  as  it  applies 
peculiarly  to  Israel.  The  ten  commandments 
embody  the  common  law  of  morality,  which 
is  as  binding  upon  Christians  as  it  is  upon 
Jews." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  that's  another  question." 

"  Would  it  be,  for  example,  the  desecration  of 
Yom  Kippur  ?" 

"  The  desecration  of  Yom  Kippur  would  be  a 


56  THE    YOKE  OF  THE   THORAH. 

deadly  sin  ;  so  would  the  desecration  of  the  Sab- 
bath ;  so  would  disobedience  to  parental  authority. 
But  the  most  deadly  of  all,  in  my  opinion,  would 
be  a  forbidden  marriage." 

*'  That  is,  marriage  with  a  Christian  ? " 

**  Yes — with  a  Gentile,  a  Goy — with  any  one  not 
of  our  own  race." 

"  That,  you  think,  is  the  one  sin  which  would  be 
most  unpardonable  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  ?  For 
which  He  would  inflict  the  severest  punish- 
ment?" 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  And  it's  rather  odd  that  we 
should  speak  of  this  just  now,  for  at  the  moment 
when  you  came  in  I  was  reading  a  sermon  on  the 
very  subject — a  sermon  written  by  your  own  great- 
grandfather, the  Reverend  Abraham  Bacharach, 
of  New  Orleans,  the  first  of  your  family  who  came 
to  America.  I  was  reading  a  sermon  that  he 
preached  at  the  excommunication  of  a  young  man 
of  his  congregation,  who  had  married  a  French- 
woman, a  Catholic.     Here  it  is." 

The  rabbi  pointed  to  the  manuscript  that  lay 
upon  his  table. 

"  Indeed  ? "  questioned  Elias.  "  What  does  he 
say?" 

**  Oh,  he  agrees  with  me,  that  it  is  absolutely  the 
most  deadly  of  sins.  He  denounces  it  with  a  good 
deal  of  energy.  There's  one  paragraph  here  some- 
where that  struck  me  as  especially  fine.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  shouldn't  mind,"  Elias  assented. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH,  57 

The  rabbi  picked  up  the  manuscript  and  began 
to  run  over  the  pages,  searching  for  the  place. 

"  Ah,  I've  got  it,"  he  said  at  last.  "  It  comes 
just  after  a  statement  of  the  circumstances,  as  a 
sort  of  summing  up.  It's  in  German.  Shall  I  read 
the  original  or  translate  ?  " 

"  Translate,  if  you  will." 

The  rabbi  cleared  his  throat,  brought  the  manu- 
script close  to  his  eyes,  knitted  his  brows  and  pro- 
ceeded thus : 

"  Well,  it  runs  this  way  :  *  He  has  defied  the  law 
of  the  Lord  our  God.  Let  him  tremble  and  be 
afraid.  He  has  dishonored  the  memory  of  his 
ancestors  ;  he  has  besmirched  the  name  of  his 
family  ;  he  has  broken  the  tie  that  bound  him  to  his 
kinsfolk  ;  he  has  sent  the  father  that  hegot  him, 
and  the  mother  that  bore  and  suckled  him,  weeping 
on  the  way  to  their  graves.  Oh,  let  him  cast  down 
his  face  and  be  ashamed.  To  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, to  those  who  were  his  friends  and  loved  him, 
to  the  rabbi,  the  chazzan,  the  parnass,  and  the  peo- 
ple of  this  congregation,  and  to  all  faithful  Jews 
from  one  end  of  the  earth  to  the  other,  he  is  as 
one  who  has  died  a  disgraceful  death.  The  anger 
of  the  Most  High  shall  single  him  out.  His  cup 
shall  be  filled  to  the  brim  with  gall  and  worm- 
wood. The  light  of  the  sun  shall  be  extinguished 
for  him.  A  curse  shall  rest  upon  him  and  upon  all 
that  concerns  him.  His  wife  shall  become  as  a  sore 
in  his  flesh.  With  a  scolding  tongue  she  shall  be- 
shrew  him.     As  a  wanton,  she  shall  shame  him. 


58  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

His  worldly  affairs  shall  not  prosper.  Misfortune 
and  calamity  shall  follow  wherever  he  goes. 
Whatsoever  he  puts  his  hand  to,  that  shall  fail. 
An  old  man,  homeless  and  friendless,  he  shall  beg 
his  bread  from  door  to  door.  His  intelligence 
shall  decay.  He  shall  be  pointed  out  and  jeered 
at,  as  a  fool  that  drivels  and  chatters.  His  health 
shall  break.  His  bones  shall  rot  in  his  body.  His 
eyes  shall  become  running  ulcers  in  their  sockets. 
His  blood  shall  dry  up,  a  fiery  poison  in  his  veins. 
And  his  seed  also  shall  be  afflicted.  From  genera- 
tion to  generation  a  blight  shall  pursue  those  that 
bear  his  name.  For  the  blood  of  Israel  mixed 
with  the  blood  of  a  strange  people,  is  like  a  sweet 
wine  mixed  with  aloes.  His  sons  shall  be  weak  of 
mind  and  body.  His  daughters  shall  be  ugly  to 
look  upon.  To  him  and  to  his  the  Lord  our  God 
will  show  no  mercy,  even  unto  the  brink  of  the 
grave.  They  shall  be  as  if  touched  with  the  lep- 
rosy, shunned  and  despised  of  all  men.  To  the 
Goy  they  will  continue  to  be  Jews  ;  but  to  the  Jew 
they  will  have  become  Goym.  The  Lord  our  God 
is  a  jealous  God.  His  love  knoweth  no  bounds. 
His  wrath  is  like  a  great  fire  that  can  n^t  be  put 
out.  He  shcwereth  favors  abundantly  upon  them 
that  love  Him  and  keep  His  commandments.  The 
iniquity  of  the  fathers  He  visits  upon  the  children 
and  the  children's  children,  even  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generations.  Blessed  be  the  name  of 
the  Lord  ! '" 

The  rabbi  had  begun  this  reading  in  low  and 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  59 

matter-of-fact  accents ;  but  as  he  proceeded,  his 
voice  had  increased  in  volume  and  emphasis, 
and  the  last  words  rang  forth,  loud  and  resonant,  as 
though  they  had  been  addressed  to  a  multitude  in 
the  synagogue.  The  veins  in  his  forehead  stood 
out  blue  and  swollen  against  the  white  skin,  and  be- 
hind the  thick  lenses  of  his  spectacles  you  could 
see  that  his  black  eyes  were  flashing  fire.  He 
paused  for  a  little,  breathing  deeply.  By  degrees 
the  veins  in  his  forehead  grew  small  and  smaller, 
becoming  pale,  flat  lines,  like  veins  in  marble.  Pres- 
ently, laying  aside  the  manuscript,  "  There,  Elias," 
he  added,  quietly,  ''that  is  what  your  great-grand- 
father thought  about  intermarriage,  and  I  guess 
there  has  never  been  a  Bacharach  to  think  differ- 
ently. I  hope  there  never  may  be  one,  I'm  sure. 
Why — why,  what  makes  you  so  pale  ?  " 

"  Am  I  pale  ?  I  didn't  know  it.  The  denuncia- 
tion is  bitter— terrible.     It  gave  me  cold  shivers." 

"  Yes,  terrible,  so  it  is.  But  not  exaggerated. 
It  sounds  pretty  strong,  but  it  couldn't  be  called 
exaggerated.  For  really  it's  only  a  simple  state- 
ment of  the  truth,  the  facts.  I'm  going  to  quote  it 
in  my  own  discourse  next  Sabbath.  It's  just  like 
every  thing  else.  Break  a  law,  whether  it  be  a 
law  of  nature,  a  law  of  the  land,  or  the  law  of  God, 
and  you  must  expect  to  suffer  the  consequences,  to 
be  punished." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  And  yet,  somehow,  it  seems 
as  though  the  punishment  ought  to  be  in  propor- 
tion to  the  offense.     Do  you  seriously,  literally,  be- 


6o  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

lieve  that  the  Lord  would  punish  such  a  sin  with 
such  frightful,  far-reaching  penalties  ?  " 

*'  With  worse,  even.  No  mere  human  mind  can 
conceive,  much  less  describe,  the  fearful  forms  the 
Divine  vengeance  would  take.  All  we  can  do  is  to 
picture  to  ourselves  the  worst,  and  then  say  ;  It  will 
be  as  bad  as  that,  or  worse.  That's  what  your  grand- 
father has  tried  to  do  here.  The  Lord  has  expressed 
in  perfectly  plain  language  His  desire  that  the  in- 
tegrity of  Israel  should  be  preserved.  That  was 
the  purpose  for  which  this  world  was  created  and 
mankind  called  into  existence.  Now,  to  enter  into 
matrimony  with  a  Gentile  is  such  a  flagrant  setting 
at  naught  of  the  Lord's  will — why,  common-sense  is 
enough  to  show  the  inevitable  consequences." 

"  But  suppose  a  Jew  should  love  a  woman  of  an- 
other race — a  Christian,  for  example  ;  what  would 
you  have  him  do  ?  Leave  her  ?  Never  see  her 
again  ?  Give  her  up  ?  If  he  loved  her,  no  pain 
that  the  Lord  could  inflict  would  be  worse  than  the 
pain  of  that." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Elias  ! "  the  rabbi  cried 
sharply.  "  What  you  say  is  blasphemous,  is  a  de- 
nial of  the  Lord's  omnipotence.  May  the  Lord  for- 
give you.  No,  no.  His  power  to  inflict  pain,  as 
well  as  to  confer  blessings,  is  measureless.  What 
would  I  have  the  Jew  do  ?  Why,  of  course,  I  would 
have  him  give  her  up,  no  matter  how  much  the  sac- 
rifice might  cost  him.  But  the  case  you  put  is  not 
likely  to  arise.  Love  for  a  Christian  woman  ne^^er 
could  enter  a  Jewish  heart.     Such  a  sentiment  as  a 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  6 1 

Jew  might  perhaps  feel  for  her  would  be  an  unholy 
passion.  She  might  fascinate  his  senses,  but  of 
true  love,  she  could  inspire  none  at  all." 

"  And  yet,  suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument, 
suppose  that  she  could — that  she  had — that  the 
Jew  really  did  love  her  with  true  love,  what  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  then,  as  I  say,  I  would  have  him  renounce 
her,  and  abstain  afterward  from  any  sort  of  com- 
munication with  her.  I  would  have  him  pray,  also, 
that  his  heart  might  be  cleansed  and  restored  to 
health  ;  for  such  love  would  be  a  spiritual  disease." 

Elias  made  no  answer.  The  rabbi  turned  his 
attention  to  his  lamp,  the  flame  of  which  was  splut- 
tering and  palpitating,  preparatory  to  going  out. 

**  Pshaw,"  he  said,  extinguishing  it,  "  I  must  have 
forgotten  to  fill  it." 

Then  he  struck  a  match,  and  lighted  the  gas. 

**  You  have  made  me  hungry  and  thirsty  with  so 
much  talking,"  he  continued.  *'  Now  I'm  going 
down  stairs  to  forage  for  something  to  eat.  Will 
you  come  along  ?  " 

"  No,  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed,"  said  Elias.  "  Good- 
night." 

But  he  did  not  go  to  bed,  nor  even  to  his  bed- 
room. He  went  to  his  studio,  and  sat  down  in  the 
dark  at  the  window. 

It  was  a  wondrous  night — the  sky  cloudless,  the 
air  as  clear  as  crystal.  The  moon,  waning,  was  up, 
but  out  of  sight  in  the  south,  hidden  by  the  house- 
tops.    Its  frosty  light  bathed  the  prospect,  like  an 


62  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH. 

ethereal  form  of  dew,  as  far  as  eye  could  see.  The 
branches  of  the  trees  were  silvered  by  it.  Their 
shadows  were  sharply  etched  upon  the  turf  beneath. 
The  yellow  flames  of  the  street  lamps  flared  faint 
and  sickly.  The  few  human  beings  who  now  and 
then  passed  on  the  sidewalk  opposite,  had  the 
appearance  of  mere  black  spots  in  motion.  Only 
the  largest  of  the  stars  dared  to  show  themselves, 
and  they  trembled,  and  were  pale,  as  if  cowed  by 
their  luminous  rival.  In  the  north-west,  the  spires 
of  St.  George's  Church  stood  in  massive  profile 
against  the  deep,  shimmering  vault  of  sky.  An  im- 
pressive outlook,  cold,  serene,  passionless  ;  of  a 
sort  to  remind  one  of  the  magnitude  and  the  inex- 
orableness  of  the  material  universe,  and  of  the 
infinitesimal  smallness  and  insignificance  of  one's 
self,  and  to  fill  one's  mind  with  solemn  doubts 
and  questions.  But  it  had  no  such  effect  upon 
Elias  Bacharach.  Never  had  his  own  self  loomed 
larger  in  his  eyes,  never  had  it  more  exclusively 
absorbed  his  faculties,  than  at  this  moment,  in  the 
face  of  this  moonlit  view. 

Elias  had  been  bred  in  the  straitest  sect  of  his 
religion  ;  a  rare  thing  in  this  country  in  these  days 
of  radicalism  and  unbelief.  From  his  earliest  boy- 
hood down,  his  training,  his  associations,  his  family 
life,  nearly  every  influence  that  had  borne  upon 
him,  had  been  of  a  nature  to  make  him  intensely, 
if  not  zealously  or  aggressively,  a  Jew — to  imbue  his 
mind  thoroughly  with  the  Jewish  faith,  and  to 
color  his  character    to   its  innermost  fibers    with 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  63 

Strong  Jewish  feelings.  Besides,  the  blood  of  gen- 
erations of  devout  Jews  coursed  in  his  veins  ;  it 
was  tinctured  through  and  through  with  Jewish 
prejudice  and  superstition.  He  had  never  been 
sent  to  school,  lest  in  some  wise  his  Judaism  might 
be  weakened  by  contact  with  the  Christians.  His 
uncle,  the  ral^bi,  had  taken  sole  charge  of  his  educa- 
tion. Pride  of  race  had  been  an  integral  part  of 
the  curriculum.  "  Never  forget  that  you  are  a 
Jew,  and  remember  that  the  world  has  no  honor  to 
bestow  upon  you  equal  to  the  honor  that  attaches 
to  your  birth.  To  be  born  in  Israel  is  more  illus- 
trious than  to  be  born  a  prince  ;  the  blood  of  Israel 
outranks  the  blood  royal  ;  for  the  Lord  our  God 
created  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  the  birds  and 
the  beasts,  the  flowers,  the  trees,  the  air,  the  sun- 
light, for  the  especial  enjoyment  of  His  chosen  and 
much-beloved  people.  But  remember,  too,  that  if 
the  Lord  has  vouchsafed  to  you  this  great  and  pecu- 
liar privilege,  so  He  will  exact  from  you  great  and 
peculiar  devotion.  Though  a  Gentile — because 
the  Lord  pays  no  heed  to  him — may  commit  cer- 
tain sinful  acts  with  impunity,  for  you — upon  whom 
the  eye  of  the  Lord  rests  perpetually — for  you  to 
commit  them,  would  entail  immediate  and  awful 
punishment.  Though  a  Christian,  for  example — 
because  he  is  of  infinite  smallness  in  the  sight  of 
the  Lord — may  transact  business  on  the  Sabbath, 
if  you — a  Jew — were  to  do  so,  the  Lord  would 
surely  visit  you  with  some  frightful  calamity.  You 
might  be  struck  by  lightning  ;  you  might  be  afflicted 


64  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

with  an  incurable  disease."  This  was  the  sort  of 
doctrine  that  had  been  dinned  into  Elias  Bacha- 
rach's  ears  from  the  time  when  he  had  first  begun 
the  studies  preparatory  to  becoming  Bar-Mitzvah, 
and  to  assuming,  as  the  saying  is,  the  Yoke  of  the 
Thorah.  Heredity  predisposed  him  to  accept  it. 
The  occasion  had  never  arisen  for  him  to  doubt  it, 
or  even  to  consider  it  in  the  light  of  his  own  intelli- 
gence. He  had  taken  it  for  granted,  just  as  he  had 
taken  his  geography  and  history  for  granted,  just  as 
many  wiser  people  than  he,  the  world  over,  take 
their  theology  for  granted  every  day. 

To  a  Jew  such  as  this,  nothing  can  be  more  intrin- 
sically repugnant  than  the  idea  of  marriage  with  a 
Christian — or,  more  accurately,  with  a  Goy,  which 
term  is  applied  equally  to  all  human  beings  who  are 
not  of  Jewish  faith  and  lineage.  The  average  Cau- 
casian would  pretty  certainly  hesitate  z-x  the  idea  of 
marriage  with  a  Mongolian.  How  much  more  posi- 
tive would  his  hesitation  be,  if  race  antipathy  were, 
as  it  is  in  the  case  of  the  Jews,  reenforced  by  the 
terrors  of  a  supernatural  religion.  It  is  no  figure 
of  speech,  but  a  literal  statement  of  the  fact,  to  .say 
that  an  orthodox  Jewish  father  would  rather  have 
his  son  die  than  marry  outside  of  Israel.  He  would 
prefer  a  funeral  to  such  a  wedding.  Indeed,  such  a 
wedding  would  be  regarded  as  equivalent  to  a 
funeral.  The  name  of  the  bridegroom  would  be  pub- 
lished among  the  names  of  the  dead  in  the  Jewish 
newspapers.  His  parents,  his  brothers  and  sisters, 
his   nearest   relatives,  would  put  on  mourning  for 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  65 

him;  and  henceforward,if  they  should  pass  him  in  the 
street,  they  would  refuse  to  recognize  him.  In  the 
synagogue  he  would  be  excommunicated  and  cursed. 
All  pious  Jews  would  be  enjoined  from  holding  any 
intercourse  whatever  with  him  ;  from  speaking  with 
him  ;  from  buying  of  him,  or  selling  to  him  ;  from 
giving  him  food,  drink,  clothing  or  shelter  ;  from 
succoring  him  in  danger  or  in  sickness  ;  even  from 
pronouncing  his  name.  "  Be  he  accursed,  and  be 
his  name  forever  accursed  among  men."  Further- 
more, all  pious  Jews  w^ould  cherish  the  conviction 
that  sooner  or  later  the  vengeance  of  the  Lord 
would  overtake  and  overwhelm  him.  They  would 
predict  the  direst  calamities,  the  most  fearful  retri- 
bution. Superstition  never  pays  attention  to  statis- 
tics, and  is  never  shaken  by  them.  No  conceivable 
misfortune  that  can  fasten  upon  a  human  being  in 
this  world,  but  they  would  promise  it  to  him.  Pov- 
erty, disease,  disgrace;  an  adulterous  wife ;  deformed 
children,  unsound  of  mind  and  evil  of  heart ;  what- 
ever the  imagination  can  depict  of  horrible  and  dis- 
astrous would  inevitably  fall  to  his  lot. 

In  this  faith,  among  these  traditions,  Elias  Bach- 
arach  had  grown  up.  For  hundreds,  for  thousands, 
of  years,  his  ancestors  on  every  side  had  nourished 
these  superstitions.* 

*  It  would  seem  hardly  necessary,  yet  it  is  no  more  than  fair 
to  say  that  among  the  better-educated  and  more  intelligent 
Jews  in  America,  orthodoxy  of  this  stripe  is  not  common. 
Even  among  them,  notwithstanding,  it  prevails  to  a  sufficient 
extent  ;  and  among  the  ignorant  classes  it  is  the  rule.     It  is  a 


66  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

And  yet,  an  hour  ago,  when  Elias  had  taken  leave 
of  Christine  Redwood,  his  heart  was  palpitating 
with  a  myriad  new  and  sweet  emotions,  for  which, 
suddenly,  at  last,  he  realized  that  the  right  name 
was  love — realized  it,  as  has  been  said,  with  surprise 
and  with  consternation,  for  he  had  been  unaccount- 
ably blind  to  his  own  condition  until  to-night.  And 
during  his  walk  home  he  had  pictured  to  himself 
the  exceeding  joy  that  would  be  his  if  she  should 
^ver  come  to  love  him  in  return.  And  even  now, 
the  light  of  her  eyes  still  shone  in  his  memory,  the 
scent  of  her  garments  still  clung  in  his  nostrils,  the 
SQVind  of  her  voice  still  vibrated  in  his  ears,  the 
tpuch  of  her  hand  was  still  warm  upon  his  arm. 
fjven  now,  as  he  looked  out  into  the  vast  moonlit 
sky,  and  spoke  her  name  softly  to  himself,  a  thrill 
swept  electrically  through  his  body.  He  loved  her, 
he  told  himself ;  and  if  he  could  not  win  her  love, 
if  he  could  not  have  her  for  his  wife,  the  world 
WQuld  become  a  desert  to  him,  his  life  would  be 
wasted,  he  would  rather  die,  here,  now,  at  once. 
Perhaps  Christine,  too,  was  at  this  hour  looking  out 
of  her  window.  Perhaps  her  eyes,  as  well  as  his, 
were  fillmg  themselves  with  the  glory  of  the  night. 
In  this  fancy,  highly  improbable  as  it  was,  he  found 
much  comfort.     It  was  good  to  think  that  he  and 

curious  circumstance,  however,  that,  in  the  majority  of  cases, 
those  very  Jews  who  have  cast  quite  loose  from  their  Judaism, 
and  proclaim  themselves  "free-thinkers,"  "agnostics,"  or 
what  not,  retain  their  prejudice  against  intermarriage,  and  even 
their  guperstitions  anent  its  consequences. 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THOJ^AH.  67 

she  wfere  enjoying  something  in  common.  Thfe 
moonlight  was  like  a  palpable  link  connecting  them, 
like  a  gossamer  cord  stretching  between  them  and 
binding  them  together.  Would  that  it  might  bear 
a  message  from  him  to  her,  and  let  her  know  of  the 
love  that  was  yearning  in  his  bosom.  Again  he 
spoke  aloud  her  name,  caressing  it  as  it  passed  his 
lips.  And  again  his  heart  thrilled,  intoxicated  with 
love  and  hope. 

But  all  at  once  his  superstition  sprang  upon  him. 
All  at  once,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  in  the  darkness, 
the  fear  of  the  Divine  wrath  lit  up  his  imagination-. 
Every  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  came  to  a  standi 
still  and  grew  cold.  He  could  feel  his  flesh  creep, 
his  hair  rise  on  end.  For  a  third  time  he  pro- 
nounced her  name  ;  but  this  time  it  escaped  like  a 
gasp  of  pain  from  between  clenched  teeth.  Why- 
had  he  ever  seen  her  ?  Why  had  he  not  understood 
the  peril  that  he  was  running,  and  avoided  it  ? 
Henceforth,  at  any  rate,  he  would  never  see  her 
again.  He  would  do  as  his  uncle  had  said,  give 
her  up,  tear  her  from  his  heart.  No  matter  how 
hard  it  might  be,  he  would  do  it,  and  so  save  her 
and  himself  from  perdition.  But  the  resolution  had 
not  taken  shape  in  his  mind  before  Christine's  face, 
pale  and  pleading,  with  pathetic,  passionate  eyes, 
came  up  visibly  before  him  ;  and  then  he  was  con- 
scious of  nothing  but  of  a  great  tenderness  for  her, 
an  infinite  need  of  her,  a  sharp  pang  of  remorse 
that  he  should  have  been  disloyal  to  her  for  an  in- 
stant, a  strong  throbbing  in  his  temples,  a  wondrous 


68  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

tremor  through  all  his  senses.  Yet,  even  while  this 
vision  was  still  haunting  his  sight,  the  voice  of  the 
rabbi  began  to  ring  hideously  in  his  ears,  repeating 
the  anathema  that  his  own  ancestor  had  written  ; 
and  all  the  Jew  in  him  shuddered  at  the  sound. 

He  covered  his  head  and  prayed. 

He  remained  in  prayer  until  the  dawn  had  begun 
to  whiten  the  walls  of  his  room. 

Then  he  sat  down  at  his  window,  and  watched  the 
red  and  gold  burn  in  the  eastern  sky,  and  wondered 
at  the  strange  calm  that  had  come  to  him.  His 
prayer  had  been  answered,  he  believed.  He  had 
prayed  that  his  heart  might  be  purged  of  the  un- 
holy love  that  had  stolen  into  it.  Now  he  could 
think  of  Christine  with  complete  indifference.  Not 
a  trace  was  left  of  the  agitation  which  that  thought 
had  aroused  in  him  a  little  while  ago. 

*'  The  Lord  has  heard  my  prayer.  I  am  not  in 
love  with  her  any  more,"  he  said. 

He  went  through  the  rest  of  that  week  in  the  same 
indifferent  condition — ate,  drank,  slept,  painted, 
chatted  with  his  uncle,  kept  the  Sabbath,  precisely 
as  though  Christine  Redwood  had  never  crossed  the 
horizon  of  his  world. 

"  I  am  not  in  love  with  her,"  he  assured  himself. 
"  She  is  a  pretty  and  pleasant  girl  ;  but  I  am  not  in 
love  with  her,  and  never  shall  be." 

The  Jew  had  got  the  better  of  the  man. 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE   THORAH,  69 


VII. 

WHEN  Elias  woke  up  Sunday  morning,  he  saw 
that  it  was  snowing.  He  lay  abed  for  a 
while,  with  eyes  turned  upon  his  window-pane,  and 
watched  the  snow-flakes  float  lightly  and  silently 
earthward  through  the  still  air.  The  street  below 
was  noisy  with  the  sound  of  shovels  scraping  the 
pavement.  The  daylight  had  caught  a  deathlike 
pallor  from  the  whiteness  round  about.  Elias  won- 
dered whether  he  would  be  expected  in  Sixty-third 
Street,  despite  the  storm.  He  got  up  and  dressed, 
all  the  while  balancing  this  question  in  his  mind. 
But  presently  the  weather  itself  decided  for  him. 
The  storm  ceased.  The  snow  fell  no  more.  The 
sun  came  out. 

He  went  up-town,  entered  Redwood's  parlor,  and 
sat  down  facing  the  folding-doors  that  led  into  the 
back  room. 

He  was  not  in  love  with  her.  She  was  a  pretty 
and  pleasant  girl,  and  all  that ;  but  he  was  not  in 
love  with  her,  and  never  would  be.  This  is  what 
he  had  repeated  to  himself  again  and  again  during 
the  past  few  days.  So  be  it.  But  then  why — when 
all  at  once  she  appeared  in  the  opening  of  the  fold- 
ing-doors, and  advanced  toward  him,  proffering  her 
hand,  and  wishing  him  good-morning — why  did 
his  heart  stop  beating  ?  Why  did  his  breath  be- 
come labored  and  tremulous  ?  Why  did  his  lips 
quiver,  his  cheeks  burn  ?    Why  should  the  sight  of 


7P  THE    YOKE   OF    'I'llK    Til  OR  AH. 

her  have  had  this  effect  upon  a  man  who  did  not 
love  her,  who  was  not  even  on  the  point  of  loving 
her  ?  And  then,  when  he  took  the  proffered  hand 
in  his,  and  gazed  down  at  her  face,  and  breathed 
the  air  that  her  presence  sweetened,  why  was  his 
breast  suddenly  pierced  by  a  strange  emotion,  half 
a  pain,  half  an  ecstatic  pleasure,  and  why  did  he 
have  to  exert  his  utmost  self-control,  to  keep  from 
catching  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissing  her  ?  What 
is  the  psychology  of  these  phenomena,  if  he  did  not 
love  her  ?  She  wore  the  same  blue  gown  that  she 
had  worn  at  all  their  sittings  ;  but  it  seemed  to  him 
that  her  face  was  paler,  and  that  her  eyes  were 
larger  and  darker,  than  their  wont. 

She  bade  him  good-morning  and  withdrew  her 
hand,  and  remained  standing  before  him  ;  and  he 
remained  standing  before  her,  vainly  striving  to 
think  of  something  appropriate  to  say.  But — such 
perturbation  did  her  mere  nearness  cause  him— his 
senses  were  dispersed,  his  tongue  was  tied.  At 
last,  however,  he  contrived  to  articulate  five  words. 
The  sentiment" was  neither  very  novel  nor  very 
witty  ;  but  it  was  at  least  creditable,  and,  let  us 
trust,  sincere. 

**  I  hope  you  are  well  ? " 
**No,"she  answered,  "  I  don't  feel  very  well." 
"  Indeed  ?     I — I  hope  it  is  nothing  serious." 
*'  Oh,     no  ;     only    a    headache.      And     I     feel 
lazy  and    chilly.     I'm    afraid    I    h^ve    caught   a 
cold." 

'*  Then  I  shan't  think  of  letting  you  sit  for  me 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  ?! 

this  morning.     We'll  wait  about  our  next  sitting  till 
you  are  better." 

"  It's  too  bad  to  delay  you  so." 
"  No,  no,  not  at  all.     It  won't  make  the  slightest 
difference.    And  now,  I  know  you  ought  to  go  and 
lie  down.     So  I'll  take  myself  off.     Good-by." 

The  last  words  were  forced  out  with  a  manifest 
effort ;  and  the  speaker  made  no  visible  move  to 
accompany  them  by  the  act. 

"  Oh,  must  you  go  ? "  she  asked  ;  and  Elias 
thought  her  voice  fell. 

"Why,"  he  confessed,  "  I  should  like  nothing 
better  than  to  stay  ;  only,  I  was  afraid  I  might  be 
in  the  way." 

"  Oh,  what  an  idea  !  Won't  you  come  into  the 
back  room  ?     It's  warmer  and  cozier  there." 

In  the  back  room  a  bright  fire  crackled  in  the 
grate.  Old  Redwood  sat  before  it,  feet  on  fender, 
reading  his  newspaper.  He  greeted  Elias,  without 
rising  ;  ''  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it,  Mr.  Bacharach  ?  Glad 
to  see  you,"  and  went  on  reading. 

Christine  sank  into  a  deep  easy-chair  at  her 
father's  left.  Elias  seated  himself  next  to  her. 
He  did  not  speak.  He  had  no  desire  to  speak. 
He  would  gladly  have  sat  there  all  day  in  silence, 
simply  enjoying  the  sight  of  her,  and  his  sense  of 
closeness  to  her. 

She  said,  "  It  is  a  pity  to  have  brought  you  clear 
up  here  for  nothing,  Mr.  Bacharach.  It  makes 
me  feel  guilty  to  think  of  the  time  you  are 
losing." 


72  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

"  My  time,"  he  protested,  '^  is  not  of  such  great 
value  ;  and  there's  no  place  where  I  could  spend  it 
so  pleasantly." 

"  I  should  have  written  you  a  note,"  she  added, 
"  telling  you  not  to  come  ;  but  I  had  no  idea  I  was 
going  to  feel  out-of-sorts.  I  felt  as  well  as  usual 
last  night." 

*'  I'm  very  glad  you  didn't  write  the  note,"  he 
said,  with  haste  and  emphasis. 

"  Any  way,"  she  reflected,  "  you  couldn't  have 
received  it,  could  you  ?  To-day  being  Sunday,  it 
wouldn't  have  been  delivered  till  to-morrow." 

He  made  no  answer.  At  that  moment  he  was 
gazing  at  a  tiny  white  hand  that  rested  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair,  gazing  hungrily  at  it,  and  thinking 
how  he  would  like  for  a  single  second  to  touch  it, 
to  stroke  it,  to  press  it  to  his  lips.  The  hand  must 
have  felt  the  influence  of  his  gaze,  for  it  began  to 
move  about  in  a  restless,  uneasy  manner,  and  ended 
by  hiding  itself  among  the  folds  of  her  garment  in 
her  lap.  Elias  sighed,  as  it  disappeared  ;  and  then, 
with  no  obvious  relevancy,  remarked,  "  This  is  the 
first  snow  of  the  year." 

"  Yes,"  she  assented  ;  "  and  now  Christmas  will 
be  here  pretty  soon,  and  then  my  birthday.  Do 
you  know,  Mr.  Bacharach,  it's  very  unfortunate  to 
have  your  birthday  come  right  after  Christmas  ? 
Because,  of  course,  you  can't  expect  to  get  presents 
so  soon  again.  I  want  my  father  to  change  my 
birthday  to  July — make  believe  I  was  born  on  the 
third  of   July,   instead    of   the   third   of   January. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  73 

That  would  have  a  double  advantage.     It  would 
make  me  six  months  younger." 

<<But  if  I  should  do  that,"  argued  the  old  man, 
"  I  should  have  to  apply  to  the  legislature  to  have 
your  name  changed,  too.  We  named  you  Christine, 
on  account  of  your  being  born  so  near  Christmas. 
If  we  shift  your  birthday  over  to  July,  we'll  have 
to  call  ye  Julia." 

''  Oh,  then  I'd  rather  have  you  leave  things  as 
they  are.  I  should  hate  to  be  called  Julia.  Do 
you  like  Julia,  Mr.  Bacharach  ? " 

"  Not  nearly  so  well  as  Christine."— It  was  de- 
lightful—so intimate,  so  confidential— thus  to  be 
allowed  to  speak  her  name  in  her  presence.— 
"  Christine,"  lingering  upon  the  word, ''  Christine  is 
the  prettiest  name  I  know." 

"Your   name  "—shyly— "  your   name    is    Elias, 

isn't  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

'*  Yes,  Elias.  There  have  never  been  any  names 
but  three  among  the  men  of  my  family — Epnraim, 
Abraham,  and  Elias.  My  father's  name  was  Abra- 
ham, his  father's  Elias,  and  so  on  back.  The  younger 
son,  when  there  has  been  one,  has  always  been 
called  Ephraim.     Old-fashioned,  Bible  names,  you 

see." 

"  I   had  a  second-cousin  named   Ephraim,"  old 

Redwood  volunteered. 

Christine  said, '' I'm  glad  they  didn't  name  you 
Ephraim  or  Abraham.     But  I  like  Elias." 

"  Do  you,  indeed  ?  Most  people  find  it  exceed- 
ingly ugly.     When   I  v/as  a  boy,  it  used  to  make 


74  THE    YOKE    OF    THE    THORAH. 

me  quite  unhappy.  My  playmates  used  to  tease 
me  about  it." 

"  How  heartless  of  them  !  And  how  stupid  ! 
For  it  isn't  a  bit  ugly.  It's  strong.  It  has  so  much 
character,  so  much  individuality — Elias." 

If  it  had  been  agreeable  to  be  allowed  to  pro- 
nounce her  name,  it  was  trebly  agreeable  to  hear 
her  pronounce  and  applaud  his  own.  Indeed,  the 
quality  of  the  name  hereby  underwent  a  consider- 
able transformation,  and  acquired  a  euphony  to  his 
ears  that  it  had  never  possessed  before. 

''  Speaking  of  names,"  continued  Christine,  "  do 
you  remember  those  names  that  Rossetti  mentions 
in  '  The  Blessed  Damozel,'  and  calls  sweet  sym- 
phonies ? " 

"  I  think  Rosalys  was  one,  and  Gertrude  another, 
weren't  they  ?    There  were  five  altogether." 

"  Magdalen  was  a  third.  But  the  book  is  right 
there  on  the  table.     Let's  look  and  see." 

Elias  got  the  book,  sought  the  place,  and  read 
aloud : 

"  ' Whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys.' " 

Christine  said,  ''  I  wonder,  Mr.  Bacharach, 
whether  you  will  do  me  a  kindness  ? " 

*'  You  need  not  wonder.  Of  course  I  will,  and 
gladly.     What  is  it  ?  " 

''  Read  the  whole  poem  aloud  to  me." 

Elias  read  it  to  her.     He  read  it  with  a  good 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  75 

deal  of  fervor.  To  be  permitted  to  read  aloud  to 
her  a  poem  fraught  with  intense  passion  like  "  The 
Blessed  Damozel,"  was  the  next  best  thing  to  being 
permitted  to  talk  to  her  of  his  own  love.  And  all 
the  while,  as  he  was  reading,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
dainty,  subtle  fragrance  being  wafted  toward  him 
from  where  his  auditor  was  seated,  and  penetrating 
to  his  heart,  and  making  it  thrill.  And  whenever 
he  lifted  his  eyes  from  off  the  page,  they  encount- 
ered hers,  in  the  depths  of  which  he  could  see 
burning  a  pale,  strange  fire  ;  and  again  his  heart 
vibrated  with  a  keen,  exquisite  thrill. 

When  he  had  done,  she  exclaimed,  softly  but 
earnestly,  *'  Oh,  how  beautifully  you  read  it  ! 
You  made  mt  thrill  so  here,"  placing  her  hand  upon 
her  breast. 

At  that  he  experienced  the  keenest  and  the  most 
exquisite  thrill  of  all. 

Pretty  soon.  "  Tell  me,"  she  went  on,  "  which 
one  of  Rossetti's  poems  do  you  like  best  of  all  ?" 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he,  "  I  should  have  hard  work  to 
choose.  Yet,  perhaps,  I  like  '  The  Bride's  Pre- 
lude '  as  well  as  any.     But  which  do  you  ?  " 

"  You'll  laugh,  if  I  tell  you," 

"  Oh,  no,  I  sha'n't.     Tell  me,  please." 

"  Well,  the  one  that  somehow  moves  me  most 
deeply — it  is  one  that  I  have  scarcely  ever  heard 
praised  or  quoted — may  be  you  haven't  even  read  it. 
It's  a  little  mite  of  a  lyric — this." 

She  took  the  book,  and  quietly,  slowly,  intently, 
musically,  read  aloud  the  song,  '^  Even  So." 


76  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH. 

"  Those  last  lines,"  she  added,  "  sound  like  the 
wail  of  a  soul — they  are  so  hopeless,  so  passionate, 
so  despairing.  They  suggest  so  much  more  than 
they  say — such  a  deep,  dumb  grief.  Sometimes 
they  haunt  my  mind  for  hours  and  hours  together, 
and  give  me  such  a  strange  heartache.  What  could 
it  have  been,  the  thing  that  separated  them  ?  I 
suppose  he  must  have  done  something  base — some- 
thing that  killed  her  love,  so  that  he  lost  her  for- 
ever. Yet  I  can't  understand  why  it  should  be  so 
absolutely  hopeless.  If  they  really  were  all  alone 
together,  as  he  says,  and  she  saw  how  dreadfully  he 
had  suffered,  I  don't  understand  how  she  could 
help  forgiving  him  and  loving  him  again.    Do  you  ?  " 

And  she  repeated  the  verse  : 

"  Could  we  be  so  now?  — 

Not  if  all  beneath  heaven's  pall 
Lay  dead  but  I  and  thou, 
Could  we  be  so  now  !  " 

She  repeated  the  verse,  and  at  the  end  she  drew 
a  long,  tremulous  breath.  If  she  had  noticed 
Elias  Bacharach's  physiognomy,  while  she  was 
speaking,  she  could  not  have  failed  to  guess  his 
secret.  Pale  cheeks,  parted  lips,  and  eyes  riveted 
upon  her  face,  told  the  whole  story  more  eloquently 
than  his  tongue  could  have  done.  But  her  atten- 
tion was  all  for  Rossetti's  poetry. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  old  Redwood,  "  that  may 
be  very  fine  sentiment.  I'm  not  denying  it  is. 
But  the  grammar  is  what  stumps  me.     When  '  but ' 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  77 

is  used  as  a  preposition,  in  the  sense  of  'except,* 
it  governs  the  accusative  case.  At  least,  that's  how 
I  was  taught  at  school.  The  line  ought  to  read  : 
'Lay  dead  but  me  and  thee,'  or  '  me  and  ypu.' 
Ain't  that  so,  Mr.  Bacharach  ? " 

"Well,  I  suppose  it's  poet's  license,"  said  Elias. 

Folding  his  newspaper,  and  getting  upon  his 
feet,  the  old  man  continued,  "  Well,  I  guess  I  may. 
as  well  go  out  and  get  shaved,  Chris.  I'll  leave 
you  in  the  charge  of  Mr.  Bacharach.  Take  care  of 
her,  Mr.  B."     And  he  went  away. 

Elias  was  alone  with  her. 

She  sat  far  back  in  her  chair,  looking  through 
half-closed  lids  into  the  fire.  He  sat  forward,  upon 
the  ultimate  edge  of  his  chair,  and  looked  at  her. 
His  breath  was  coming  hard  and  fierce.  The  blood 
was  bounding  in  his  veins. 

For  a  while  neither  of  them  spoke. 

By  and  by  Elias  broke  the  silence. 

"Miss  —  Miss  Redwood,"  he  began;  then 
stopped. 

"  Yes?"  she  queried. 

He  began  again,  "  Miss  Redwood — "  Again  he 
stopped.  His  throat  felt  compressed,  his  mouth 
hot  and  parched.  He  knew  perfectly  well  what  he 
wanted  to  say  ;  but  his  heart  trembled  so,  he  could 
not  say  it. 

She,  puzzled  no  doubt  by  these  successive  repe- 
titions of  her  name,  lifted  her  eyes  inquiringly  to 
his. 

For  an  instant  their  eyes  staid  together. 


78  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH, 

That  was  a  memorable  instant  for  Elias  Bach- 
arach.  A  great  wave  of  emotion  took  away  his 
breath,  made  his  body  quiver,  his  head  swim,  as  if 
with  vertigo.  He  tried  to  speak.  His  tongue  lay 
paralyzed  in  his  mouth. 

Suddenly  she  looked  down  ;  and  a  scarlet  blush 
suffused  her  throat  and  cheeks. 

He  leapt  forward,  fell  upon  his  knees  before  her, 
caught  her  hand,  and  whispered — a  tense,  eager 
whisper,  that  clove  the  air  like  a  flame — ''  Christitie 
— my  darling  !  " 

She  drew  her  hand  away.  She  trembled  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  my  darling.  Don't  tremble," 
he  whispered. 

But  she  did  not  cease  to  tremble.  She  neither 
raised  her  eyes,  nor  spoke.  Her  blush  had  died 
away,  leaving  her  face  very  pale.  Even  her  lips 
had  lost  their  color. 

'*  Christine,"  he  whispered,  "  I  could  not  help  it. 
I  love  you.     I  could  not  keep  it  secret,  Christine." 

Shrinking  from  him,  deeper  into  her  chair, 
*'  Don't — please  don't,"  she  pleaded,  in  ar  weak, 
frightened  voice. 

Still  in  a  whisper  :  "  I  could  not  help  it.  I — I 
had  to  tell  you.  Oh,  why  do  you  shrink  away  from 
me,  like  that,  and  tremble  ?  Is  my  love  hateful  to 
you?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  not  that,"  impulsively  ;  but  then 
she  blushed  again,  as  if  ashamed. 

**  Oh,  my  God  !  God  bless  you  1 "  he  cried,  with 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  79 

a   great   sigh   of   relief.     "  I    was  afraid   it  might 

be." 

He  leaned  toward  her,  breathing  swiftly  ;  and 
his  eyes  consumed  her  face.  By  and  by,  very 
gently,  he  spoke  her  name,  "  Christine  1  " 

Her  Hps  parted—"  Yes  ?  " 

u  Christine I  love  you— with  all  my  heart  and 

soul." 

No  response. 

''  Christine— do  you  believe  me  ? " 
A  long  breath  ;  then  a  scarce  audible  ''Yes." 
"  Do  you  think  "—he   paused  to  gain  courage. 
«'  Do  you  think  it  will  ever  be  possible  for  you  to 
care  for  me  ? " 
No  answer. 

'*  Christine— won't  you  answer  me  ?  " 
She  raised  her  eyes  ;  and  for  an  infinitesimal 
fraction  of  a  second  they  rested  upon  his.  But  then 
they  hastened  to  seek  refuge  behind  dropped  lids, 
as  if  afraid  of  what  they  had  seen  and  of  what  they 
had  revealed.     Again  her  cheeks  blushed  scarlet. 

Elias  started.  Suddenly,  he  threw  his  arms 
around  her,  and  drew  her  to  him  hard  and  close. 
Her  face  lay  against  his  shoulder.  There  was  no 
sound  in  the  room,  save  the  sound  of  their  breathing. 
At  last  she  broke  away. 

"  Christine— do  you  think— perhaps— you  do- 
care  for  me — a  little  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  in  a  timid  whisper. 

a  Not— not  the  least  bit  in  the  world  ? " 

''  I  d-don't  know,"  in  a  smaller  and  more  timid 


8o  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

whisper  still.  "  I — I  never  thought  of  it  till — till 
you  spoke." 

"  Oh,  but  now  that  I  have  spoken — now  that  you 
have  thought  of  it — say — say  that  you  don't  hate 
me. 

**  Oh,  no  ;  I  don't  hate  you  at  all." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  It  was  burning 
hot.     She  drew  it  gently  away. 

"  Don't — please,"  she  said,  very  low. 

Again  no  sound. 

Again  at  length,  *'  Christine  !  " 

"  Yes  ? " 

"  Do  you  mind  my  calling  you  by  your  first  name 
— Christine  ?" 

"  No — not  if  you  like  to." 

"  Do  you  think — you — could  ever  call  me — by 
mine?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Won't  you  try  ?  It — it  would  make  me  very 
happy." 

'*  El-El-ias — "  so  sof'tly  that  it  sounded  more  like 
a  little  sigh  than  like  a  word. 

"  Oh  !  You  make  me  so  happy  !  But  do  you 
want  to  make  me  happier  still  ?  " 

"What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  you  are  not  sorry  I  love  you." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  I  am  not  sorry." 

**  Tell  me — tell  me  that  you  are  glad." 

*'  Yes— I— I  think— I  am— glad." 

"  Oh,  my  love  !  Can't  you  say  just  one  thing 
more  ?    You  know  what.     Please." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  8 1 

She  breathed  quickly.   "  Perhaps,"  she  whispered. 

Again  Elias  threw  his  arms  around  her,  and  drew 
her  close  to  him.  This  time  she  offered  no  resist- 
ance.    Their  eyes  met.     So  did  their  lips. 

"  Oh,  how  hard  your  heart  is  beating  !  "  she  mur- 
mured softly. 

Presently  they  heard  a  footstep  in  the  hall. 

"  It  is  my  father,"  she  said,  moving  away. 

"Shall  we  tell  him?"  Elias  asked. 

"  No,  not  yet.   I  will  tell  him  after  you  have  gone." 

The  old  man  entered,  clean-shaven,  and  redolent 
of  the  barber's  balmy  touch.  It  was  edifying,  the 
matter-of-fact,  unsentimental  manner  in  which  these 
young  hypocrites  thereupon  began  to  talk  and  act. 
Yes,  it  was  strange,  how  rapidly  the  snow  had 
melted  ;  and  it  did  XooV  as  though  they  might  have 
a  green  Christmas  after  all  ;  and  they  neither  of 
them  believed  in  that  lugubrious  old  proverb  about 
a  fat  church-yard,  any  how  ;  and,  of  course,  Mr. 
Bacharach  would  stay  to  dinner,  wouldn't  he  ?  and, 
well,  he  would  like  to,  very  much  indeed,  but  he 
didn't  want  to  wear  out  his  welcome  ;  and,  oh,  there 
wasn't  the  slightest  danger  of  his  doing  that,  was 
there,  father?  etc.,  etc.  But  whenever  the  old 
gentleman's  back  was  turned,  they  stole  an  eloquent 
glance  at  each  other  ;  and  now  and  then  Elias  found 
an  opportunity  slyly  to  snatch  and   press  her  hand. 

When  he  left,  Christine  went  with  him  to  the 
door.  Never  before  had  the  simple  process  of 
leave-taking  required  such  a  length  of  time. 

He  wandered  about  the  street  for  a  long  while, 


S2  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH 

ere  he  went  home.  There,  he  mounted  to  his 
studio,  and,  as  usual,  sat  down  at  the  window. 
Could  it  be  the  same  studio  that  he  had  worked  in, 
the  other  day  ?  Could  he  be  the  same  man  ?  He 
was  as  nearly  delirious  as  a  person  in  sound  health 
can  be,  without  going  sheer  out  of  his  senses.  His 
brain  whirled  round  and  round.  It  was  impossible 
for  him  to  carry  on  a  consecutive  or  coherent  pro- 
cess of  thought.  Dazzling  glimpses  of  the  happi- 
ness that  the  future  held  in  store  for  him,  alter- 
nated with  exquisite  throes  of  joy,  as  he  recalled 
what  had  happened  that  very  day.  His  heart  kept 
thrilling,  and  swinging  from  hot  to  cold,  like  a 
thing  bewitched.  \  sweet  smell  clung  to  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  at  the  spot  where  hers  had  lain. 

In  bed  he  tossed  about  all  night,  murmuring 
Christine's  name,  and  remembering  the  way  she 
had  looked,  and  the  words  that  she  had  spoken,  and 
the  kiss  that  she  had  given  him,  and  all  the  rest. 
At  last,  without  apparent  why  or  wherefore,  there 
began  to  haunt  his  mind  that  verse  of  Rossetti's 
poetry,  w^hich,  she  said,  had  haunted  hers.  He 
could  not  silence  it.  It  repeated  itself  in  a  hundred 
keys.  Toward  dawn  he  fell  into  a  restless  sleep, 
to  the  rhythm  of  it  : 

"  Could  we  be  so  now  ? — 

Not  if  all  beneath  heaven's  pall 
Lay  dead  but  I  and  thou, 
Could  we  be  so  now  !  " 

But  v/aking  up,  late  next  forenoon,  he  came  to 
his  senses — realized  what  he  had  done,  and  reflected 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  83 

upon  it.  He  hardly  dared  to  credit  his  memory. 
He  hardly  dared  to  believe  that  what  he  remem- 
bered was  the  very  truth,  and  not  an  hallucination 
born  of  his  desire.  And  yet —  No  ;  dreams  were 
not  made  of  such  circumstantial  stuff. 

''  I  love  her,  I  love  her,"  he  cried  exultantly. 
"  And  she  loves  me  !  " 

What  had  become  of  his  Judaism  ?  his  race-pride  ? 
his  superstition  ?  Love,  apparently,  had  swept  them 
clean  away.  Not  a  vestige  of  them  remained.  At 
a  touch,  it  seemed,  love  had  converted  Elias  Bach- 
arach  from  the  most  reactionary  sort  of  orthodoxy, 
to  a  rationalism,  the  bare  contemplation  of  which, 
a  few  days  ago,  would  have  appalled  him. 

"  Surely,"  he  argued,  "  the  Law  of  God  as  the 
hands  of  men  have  written  it  in  books,  is  not  to 
be  weighed  against  the  Law  of  God  as  the  hand  of 
Nature  has  written  it  in  my  own  heart." 

He  could  not  realize  that  he  had  ever  thought 
otherwise.  He  could  not  realize  that  he  had  ever 
shrunk  in  terror  from  the  idea  of  marrying  Christine 
Redwood.  He  could  not  realize  that  he  had  ever 
professed  a  creed  by  which  such  a  marriage  w^ould 
have  been  accounted  sin.  When  he  recollected  how, 
less  than  a  week  ago,  that  same  creed  had  kept  him 
awake,  praying,  all  night  long — when  he  recollected 
how,  for  six  days,  he  had  told  himself  that  he  did 
not  love  her,  and  never  would — he  was  nonplused  ; 
he  could  not  admit  it  ;  it  was  like  the  recollection 
of  a  bad,  fantastic  dream. 

The  man  had  got  the  better  of  the  Jew. 


84  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH, 


VIII. 

I'^HE  man  had  got  the  better  of  the  Jew  ;  and 
the  man  retained  the  upper  hand.  There 
came  no  reaction.  Ehas  Bacharach's  Judaism — or 
so  much  of  it,  at  least,  as  bore  upon  the  question 
of  matrimony — had  apparently  suffered  sudden  and 
total  annihilation.  Under  the  light  of  love,  it  had 
apparently  behaved  as  those  hackneyed  images  in 
the  Etruscan  tombs  behaved  under  the  light  of  the 
sun — collapsed  into  nothingness.  Looking  back- 
ward, and  repeating  to  himself  the  views  upon 
intermarriage,  which,  the  rabbi  said,  there  had 
never  been  a  Bacharach  to  doubt,  he  was  amazed 
at  their  glaring  unreasonableness,  at  their  enormity 
even,  and  could  only  ask  incredulously,  "  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  I  ever  believed  that  rubbish  ?  "  The  phi- 
losophy of  the  matter  was  extremely  simple.  Elias 
had  never  bestowed  upon  the  rabbi's  religious 
teachings  any  skeptical  consideration.  He  had 
accepted  them  as  facts  stated  upon  authority — had 
taken  the  rabbi's  word  for  them,  just  as  he  had 
taken  the  rabbi's  word  for  the  boundaries  of  the 
State  of  Nebraska,  and  for  the  date  of  the  Battle 
of  Bunker  Hill.  But,  now,  when,  for  the  first  time, 
circumstances  had  led  him  to  bring  to  bear  upon 
them  a  little  analysis  and  common-sense,  to  exercise 
a  little  his  right  and  his  power  of  private  judgment, 
now  their  absurdity  had  become  startlingly  con- 
spicuous.    Then,  of  course,  his  wish  fostered  his 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  85 

thought.  Every  spontaneous  impulse  of  his  nature 
aided  and  abetted  his  intelligence  in  its  iconoclasm. 
He  wanted — he  wanted— "lo  marry  Christine  Red- 
wood ;  and  a  theology  which  taught  that,  merely 
because  the  accident  of  birth  had  made  of  him  a 
Jew,  and  of  her  a  Christian,  such  marriage  would 
be  sinful,  thereby  proved  itself  to  be  the  offspring 
of  prejudice  and  superstition. 

Christine  had  said  that  she  would  tell  her  father  ; 
but  on  second  thoughts  she  found  that  she  lacked 
the  proper  courage  :    and  so   Elias,    not   without 
some  trepidation,   had  to  take  the  mission   upon 
himself.     The  old  man,  at  the  outset,  professed  no 
end  of  astonishment,  and  considerable  indignation. 
"  So  !  "  he  cried.  ''  I  engage  you  to  paint  my  daugh- 
ter's portrait,  and  you  spend  the  time  making  love 
to  her  !    A  pretty  kettle  of  fish,  as  I'm  alive  !  " 
But  by  degrees  his  amiability  was  restored  ;    and 
finally  he  remarked,  ''Well,  Mr.  Bacharach,  though 
you  are  a  Hebrew,  you're  white  ;    and  any  how, 
religion  don't  worry  us  much  in  this  household, 
and  never  did.     I'm  a  Universalist,  myself  ;    and 
Chris — well,  I  guess  no  one  knows  what  she  is. 
One  thing's  certain — she  might  have  gone  further, 
and  fared  worse  ;    she  might,  for  a  fact.     You're  a 
perfect  gentleman  ;    and  you  can't  help  it,  if  you 
were  born  a  Jew.     You  don't  look  like  one,  and  you 
don't  act  like  one.     Of  course,  there's  your  name 
— Bacharach — a  regular  jaw-breaker  ;  but  I  shan't 
stick  on  a  name.     It  ain't  I  that's  got  to  bear  it  ; 
and  so  long  as  Chris  is  satisfied,  it  ain't  for  me  to 


86  TtlE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

grumble.  I  guess  she'll  smell  about  as  sweet 
under  it,  as  she  does  under  her  present  one.  You 
see,  I  agree  with  the  Great  Bard.  Any  how,  if  she's 
made  up  her  mind  to  have  ye,  I  suppose  I'll  be 
obliged  to  say  yes,  sooner  or  later  ;  and  it'll  save 
time  and  trouble  for  me  to  say  it  sooner."  So  it 
was  arranged  that  they  should  be  married  early 
in  the  spring,  that  they  should  spend  the  summer 
traveling  in  Europe,  and  that  in  the  autumn  they 
should  return  to  New  York,  and  domicile  them- 
selves under  Redwood's  roof. 

"  The  man  who  marries  my  daughter,"  stipu- 
lated the  old  gentleman,  with  a  grim  smile,  '*  has 
got  to  marry  me.  I  ain't  pretty,  but  I'm  solid  ; 
and  I'm  not  going  to  be  separated  from  her  in  my 
old  age.  He's  got  to  fetch  his  traps,  and  live  in 
this  house,  besides,  because  I'm  used  to  it,  and  I 
don't  mean  to  quit  it  till  I'm  carried  out  horizon- 
tally. It's  big  enough,  and  to  spare,  the  Lord 
knows.     Come  and  look  it  over." 

Elias  followed  the  old  man  from  cellar  to  garret. 
On  the  third  floor  his  conductor  threw  open  a  door, 
and  announced.  "  This  is  her  room.'*  Elias's  mem- 
ory of  the  few  brief  seconds  that  he  had  been 
permitted  to  pass  upon  Christine's  threshold,  look- 
ing into  her  room,  breathing  the  sweet  air  of  it,  and 
noting  its  hundred  pretty  little  girlish  fixings — in- 
animate companions  of  her  most  intimate  life — 
thrilled  in  his  heart  many  a  time  afterward.  Was 
it  not  for  him,  her  lover,  like  a  glimpse  into  the 
Holy  of  Holies  ? 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  87 

They  were  to  be  married  in  the  spring.  Now  it 
was  December.  Meanwhile  they  had  nothing  to 
do  but  to  make  the  most  of  the  present.  They 
saw  each  other  nearly  every  day  ;  and  those  days 
on  which  something  prevented  them  from  seeing 
each  other,  were  very  long  and  very  dark  days  to 
Elias  Bacharach.  How  did  they  amuse  them- 
selves ?  Innocently  enough, , and  with  no  sort  of 
difficulty.  If  an  exhaustive  account  of  their  doings 
were  reduced  to  writing,  it  would  seem  very  trivial 
and  very  monotonous  ;  but  to  them,  basking  in 
the  light  of  new-born  love,  the  trivial  and  the 
monotonous  did  not  exist.  High  and  low,  far  and 
wide,  the  world  had  been  invested  with  the  splen- 
dor, the  mystery,  and  the  majesty  of  the  golden 
age.  Yes,  indeed  :  the  period,  long  or  short,  dur- 
ing which  first  love  holds  sway  over  our  hearts, 
tyrant  though  the  ruler  be,  is  notoriously  our 
golden  age,  never  to  come  but  once.  In  this  re- 
spect history  does  not  repeat  itself,  Elias  felt  that 
each  of  his  five  senses  had  been  sharpened,  and 
that,  moreover,  he  had  acquired  a  sixth  sense,  a 
super-sense.  The  homeliest  things,  the  most  famil- 
iar sights,  the  commonest  occurrences,  took  on  a 
beauty,  a  significance,  a  suggestiveness,  undreamed 
of  until  now.  They  aroused  thoughts  in  his  brain, 
emotions  in  his  breast.  He  had  used  to  regard 
New  York  as  a  somewhat  sordid  and  unpicturesque 
metropolis  :  now  he  held  it  to  be  the  most  roman- 
tic city  of  the  earth.  Did  she  not  dwell  within  its 
walls  ?     Certainly,   in    former    years,  the    Eighth 


88  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

Avenue  horse-railway,  with  its  dingy  cars  and 
shabby  passengers,  had  had  no  special  fascination 
for  him  ;  but  now  the  bare  mention  of  its  name 
would  rouse  a  sentimental  tenderness  in  his  bosom. 
Was  not  that  the  line  by  which  he  traveled  when  he 
went  to  see  her  ?  Everywhere  he  became  aware 
of  new  aspects  and  new  influences,  to  which  hereto- 
fore his  consciousness  had  been  hermetically  sealed. 
In  a  letter  written  by  him  to  Christine  at  about  this 
time — for,  despite  the  frequency  of  their  meetings, 
they  found  it  necessary  to  keep  the  post-office 
busied  on  their  behalf — Elias  indulges  in  the  fol- 
lowing rhapsody  : 

"  I  have  waked  up  from  a  long  sleep,  a  period  of 
torpor,  diversified  by  vague  dreams,  into  fresh, 
keen,  sensitive  life.  I  have  begun  to  love ;  and 
until  one  begins  to  love,  one  is  only  half  born. 
Until  one  loves,  half  the  faculties,  half  the  activi- 
ties, which  one  possesses,  lie  in  a  dormant  state, 
are  merely  potential,  latent.  For  love — is  it  not 
the  very  soul  and  life  of  life  itself?  I  know  a 
poem  which  says  :  *  Through  love  to  light  !  Oh, 
wonderful  the  way,  that  leads  from  darkness  to  the 
perfect  day !  '  That  expresses  exactly  what  I 
mean.  The  life  I  lived  before  I  knew  you,  and 
began  to  love  you,  compared  to  the  life  I  live  now, 
as  the  dusk  of  early  morning  compares  to  the 
brilliant  day  that  comes  with  the  rising  of  the 
sun.  Where  there  was  chill,  now  there  is  warmth. 
Where  there  was  silence,  now  there  is  music. 
Where    there    was    gloom,    now    there    is  glory. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  89 

Things  that  were  before  invisible  or  insignificant, 
now  force  themselves  upon  my  attention,  and  have  a 
meaning  and  a  solemnity.     It  is  as  though  you  had 
touched  me  with  a  vivifying  wand — as  though  you 
had  given  me  to  drink  of  the   elixir  of  life.     Well, 
you  have  given  me  to  drink  of  the  elixir  of  love  ; 
and  that  is  even  more  potent  and  marvelous  in  its 
effects.     These    are   not   mere  phrases,  Christine, 
dashed  off  in  enthusiasm,  without   being  weighed. 
They  are  an  imperfect  expression  of  very  real  and 
practical  facts.     See  the  direct  and  manifest  influ- 
ence that  my  love  of  you  has  exercised  upon  my 
work,  my  art.     I  used  to  tell  myself,  with  a  good 
deal  of  complacency,  that  the  artist  was  a  sort  of 
priest  ;  that  he  ought  to  be  a  celibate,  that  he  ought 
to  consecrate  the  whole  of  himself   to  his  art,  that 
the  muse  should  be  his  wife,  that  no  mortal  woman 
should   divide  his   homage  with  her.     I  had    one 
formula  that  pleased  me  especially.     I  said, '  The 
muse  is   a  jealous   mistress.     She    will    brook  no 
rivalry.     To  win  her  favor,  one  must  renounce  the 
world,  and  devote  himself  exclusively  to  her  ser- 
vice.'    And  I  used  to  fancy  that  I  really  believed 
this    high-flown    nonsense.     But   what    sophism  ! 
What  cant  !  What  puerile  pinning  of  my  faith  to  a 
hollow  set  of  words?     For  the   very  first  require- 
ment to  successful  accomplishment  in  art — what  is 
it  ?     Isn't   there   a  spiritual    equipment   as   much 
needed  by  the  artist,  as  indispensable  to  his  pro- 
ductiveness, as  his  material  equipment  of  palette, 
paint-tubes,  and  brushes?    Why,   the   very   sine- 


9©  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

qua-non  is  this  ;  that  he  shall  live.  I  mean,  that 
he  shall  be  intensely  human  ;  that  he  shall  think 
clearly,  feel  deeply,  and  see  truly — see  the  truth, 
the  whole  truth,  and  the  very  heart  of  the  truth. 
Until  one  has  lived  in  this  sense,  one's  art  will 
never  be  real  art.  It  will  only  be  a  nicer,  a  more 
complex,  species  of  mechanics.  It  will  be  the  body 
of  art,  without  the  spirit  of  it.  Well,  did  I  live,  did 
I  think,  feel,  see,  before  I  knew  you,  and  loved 
you  ?  A  little,  perhaps  ;  vaguely,  incompletely  ; 
by  fits  and  starts  ;  as  in  a  glass,  darkly.  But  now  ? 
Oh,  it  is  as  though  you  had  given  me  a  soul  !  You 
have  quickened  the  dormant  soul  that  was  in  me, 
given  it  eyes,  ears,  perceptions,  sympathies.  At 
last  I  am  alive,  tingling  and  throbbing  to  my  finger 
tips  with  life,  with  warm,  buoyant,  intense,  eager 
life.  My  existence  now  is  a  constant  exaltation, 
a  constant  inspiration.  "Whatever  my  eye  looks 
upon,  whatever  my  ear  hears,  whatever  my  fingers 
touch,  means  something,  says  something  to  me,  and 
wakes  a  response  in  my  own  heart.  I  think,  feel, 
see,  and  consequently  paint,  with  a  zest,  an  impetus, 
a  power,  and  yet  a  serenity,  a  repose,  of  which 
I  never  even  had  a  conception  in  the  old  days, 
Christine  !  Oh,  my  love  !  .  .  When  I  look  at 
you,  Christine,  and  realize  that  you  are  my  betrothed 
— that  you  love  me,  and  that  you  have  promised  to 
be  my  wife  ;  and  when  I  take  your  little  hand  in 
mine,  and  stroke  it,  and  feel  its  wondrous  warmth 
and  softness,  and  bring  it  to  my  lips,  and  breathe 
that  most  delicate  fragrance  which  ever  clings  to  it  ; 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAIT.  9I 

and  when  I  gaze  into  the  luminous  depths  of  your 
eyes,  and  behold  your  spirit  burning  far,  far 
down  in  them  :  oh !  my  blood  seems  to  catch 
fire ;  each  breath  is  like  a  draught  of  some 
magic,  intoxicating  vapor  ;  I  come  near  to  faint- 
ing, for  the  great  joy  that  fills  my  heart — fills 
it,  and  thrills  it.  I  dare  say  all  men  who  love, 
and  are  loved  in  return,  are  happy.  But  none  can 
be  so  supremely  happy  as  I  am,  so  miraculously 
happy  ;  because  no  one  else  loves  you,  and  is 
loved  by  you.  And  other  women  are  no  more  like 
you  than — than  dust  is  like  fire,  than  glass  is  like 
diamond,  than  water  is  like  wine.  You  mustn't 
laugh  at  me  for  saying  this.  It  is  really,  honestly 
true.  They  resemble  you  in  outward  form,  of 
course  :  they,  too,  have  hands  and  feet,  shaped  more 
or  less  upon  the  same  pattern  that  yours  are  shaped 
upon.  But  you — you  have  something — some- 
thing which  I  can  not  name  or  describe — some» 
thing  subtle,  impalpable,  and  yet  unmistakable — 
something  supersensual,  celestial — which  makes 
you  as  different  from  them  as — it  is  a  grotesque 
comparison,  but  it  will  show  you  what  I  mean — as 
a  magnet  is  different  from  common  iron.  It  is  a 
difference  of  quality,  which  I  can  not  find  any  words 
exactly  to  define.  I  suppose  really  that  it  is  simply 
your  soul — that  you  have  a  purer,  finer  soul  than 
other  women.  Whatever  it  is,  I  recognized  it,  and 
felt  it,  with  a  thick  thrill,  as  one  feels  an  electric 
spark,  the  first  time  I  ever  saw  you — reflected  in 
that   old,  time-stained   looking-glass,  between  the 


92  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    7  H  OR  AH. 

windows  in  your  father's  shop.  I  recognize  and 
feel  it  perpetually,  everywhere  I  go.  AJl  the 
other  women  that  I  see  have  about  them  a  touch  of 
the  earth,  from  which  you  are  free  ;  and  they  lack 

that  touch  of  heaven,  which  you  have 

Why,  from  among  the  millions  of  men  upon  this 
planet,  why  should  I  have  been  the  one  chosen  to 
enjoy  thjs  unique  rapture  ?  What  have  I  done  to 
deserve  that  the  single  peerless  and  perfect  lady 
should  be  mine  ?  It  is  incomprehensible.  In  a 
world  built  up  of  marvels,  it  is  the  prime,  the  crown- 
ing, the  over-topping  marvel.  It  would  be  incredi- 
ble, were  it  not  indubitably  true.  But  sometimes, 
true  though  I  know  it  to  be,  I  become  so  acutely 
conscious  of  the  wonder  and  incomprehensibility  of 
it,  that  I  doubt  it  in  spite  of  myself.  Then  I  think  : 
may  be,  after  all,  it  is  a  dream.  At  such  moments,  I 
hasten  to  see  you,  to  verify  it.  I  can  not  reach  you 
quickly  enough.  At  what  a  snail's  pace  the  horse- 
car  drags  along  !  How  endless  are  the  intervals 
when  it  stops,  to  take  in  or  to  let  off  a  passenger  ! 
I  count  the  seconds,  I  count  the  inches.  All  the 
while,  my  soul  is  trembling  within  me  ;  nor  does  it 
cease  to  tremble,  till  I  have  crossed  your  threshold, 
and  beheld  you  with  my  eyes,  and  touched  you  with 
my  hands,  and  thus,  so  far  as  seeing  and  feeling  are 
believing,convinced  myself  that  you  really  exist,  and 
that  my  great  happiness  is  not  a  phantasm — unless 
indeed,  my  whole  life  is  one  long  phantasm,  one  con- 
tinuous dream,  which  sometimes  I  think  may  be  the 
explanation  of  it.     This  great,  vast  happiness  !  It 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  93 

would  be  ungrateful  and  irreverent  to  suppose  that 
it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  by  mere  chance  or  accident ; 
and  yet  I  can  not  understand  why  God  should 
have  so  favored  me  above  all  other  living  mxcn  ;  why 
He  should  have  selected  me  to  receive  the  greatest 
blessing  that  He  had  to  bestow — your  love,  my 
queen  !  " 

And  in  a  letter  written  by  her  to  him,  she  says  : 
*'  What  if  we  had  never  known  each  other  ?  That 
would  have  been  very  possible,  wouldn't  it  ?  The 
world  is  so  large,  and  there  are  so  many,  many 
people,  and  the  likelihood  of  any  two  happening  to 
come  together  is  so  very  slight,  it  would  have  been 
quite  possible  for  us  to  have  gone  through  life, 
and  died,  without  ever  having  known  each  other. 
Think  of  the  many  years  that  we  did  dwell  right 
here  in  the  same  city,  without  ever  even  knowing 
of  each  other's  existence  !  And  yet  often,  perhaps, 
in  the  course  of  those  years,  we  came  very  near 
together.  Who  can  tell  but  that  we  may  have  sat 
together  in  the  same  concert-hall,  listening  to  the 
same  music  ?  We  may  have  passed  each  other  in 
the  street  a  great  many  times.  We  may  even  have 
ridden  in  the  same  horse-car  together,  and  not  have 
noticed  each  other.  Isn't  it  strange  ?  But  think, 
if  I  had  not  happened  to  go  to  my  father's  shop 
that  afternoon  !  Or,  if  you  had  not  happened  to 
go  there,  too,  at  just  the  same  time  !  Why,  then 
we  might  never  have  known  each  other  at  all  !  It 
takes  my  breath  away,  to  think  of  it ;  doesn't  it 
yours  ?     How  strange  and  empty  and  incomplete 


94  THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH. 

our  lives  would  have  been  ?  We  should  have  gone 
through  life,  without  ever  really  knowing  what  life 
meant — without  ever  realizing  the  greatness  arid 
the  richness  and  the  wonder  of  it.  I  should  never 
have  known  what  it  was  to  love — for  I  never  could 
have  loved  any  one  but  you.  Oh,  how  lonesome  I 
should  have  been  !  But  you — do  you  think  you 
might  have  loved  somebody  else,  and  married  her  ? 
There  are  so  many  women  ;  but  there  is  only  one 

you. Oh,  if  I   could    only  feel    sure  that  you 

would  always,  always  love  me,  and  never  get  over 
loving  me  !  Whenever  you  are  away  from  me,  I 
can't  help  being  afraid  that  you  do  not  love  me  any 
more.  I  long  so  impatiently  to  have  you  come 
back  and  tell  me  that  you  do.  If  you  ever  really 
should  get  over  loving  me — oh,  I — I  would  rather 
have  you  kill  me  right  away." 

Thus  these  young  persons  pursued  their  billing 
and  cooing.  Thus  they  played  their  parts  in  the 
oldest  of  old  plays,  never  for  an  instant  suspecting 
that  the  same  songs  had  been  sung,  the  same  lines 
declaimed,  the  same  little  scenes  enacted,  the  whole 
worn  threadbare,  by  myriads  of  similar  personages, 
ever  since  the  world  began  ;  and  scarcely  giving  a 
thought,  either,  to  the  time  when,  by  and  by,  the 
curtain  would  be  rung  down,  and  the  theater 
emptied,  and  the  foot-lights  put  out.  So  short- 
sighted, so  self-absorbed,  is  love.  The  two  letters 
from  which  1  have  just  quoted,  lie  before  me  now. 
It  is  not  such  a  great  while  since  they  were  written 
—not  such  a  great  while  since  the  paper  grew  hot 


THE    YOKE    OF    THE    THORAH.  95 

tinder  the  writer's  hand,  and  fluttered  as  the  reader's 
breath  fell  upon  it.  But  the  paper  is  quite  cold 
now  ;  and  already  the  ink  has  begun  to  fade. 
Yet,  to  Christine's  pages  there  still  clings,  sin- 
gularly enough,  the  ghost  of  a  faint,  sweet 
smell. 

Numberless  were  the  delightful  hours  that  Elias 
spent  painting  at  her  portrait ;  and  long  before  the 
spring  came  he  had  it  finished.  Of  course,  he  was 
not  satisfied  with  it.  Of  course,  he  found  it  tame 
and  poor  when  compared  to  the  original.  But 
what  true  artist  ever  is  satisfied  with  his  own  handi- 
work ?  What  true  lover  but  always  will  find  tame 
and  poor  a  portrait  of  his  mistress  ?  He  made, 
besides,  a  great  many  pencil  and  water-color  draw- 
ings of  her.  He  never  tired  of  striving  to  transfix 
something  of  her  exquisite  beauty  upon  the  pages 
of  his  sketch-book.  The  effort  was  always  a 
pleasure.  The  result  was  alwa3^s  a  disappointment. 
He  did  not,  however,  by  any  means,  confine  these 
experiments  to  his  sketch-book.  All  the  blank 
paper  that  passed  his  way,  ran  an  imminent  risk  of 
being  seized  upon,  and  made  to  bear  an  attempt  at 
her  likeness.  I  have  on  my  desk  that  volume  of 
Rossetti's  poems,  from  which,  on  a  memorable 
Sunday  morning,  Elias  read  aloud  "  The  Blessed 
Damozel."  Scattered  over  the  fly-leaves  and  the 
margins  of  the  pages,  I  have  counted  no  fewer  than 
sixty-nine  pencil  studies  of  Christine's  face,  in 
various  stages  of  completion.  Beneath  one  of  these 
is  written   in   Elias's   hand,  '•  Oh,  what  a  wonder  of 


96  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

a  woman  !  "  and  immediately  following,  in  ChriS' 
tine's,  "  Oh,  what  a  goose  !  " 

Often,  if  the  sun  shone,  they  would  take  long 
walks  in  Central  Park  ;  and  Christine  kept  her 
promise  to  show  him  some  of  those  nooks  and 
corners  which  she  had  preempted,  and  which  no- 
body else  knew  the  existence  of.  One  of  these 
speedily  became  a  favorite  resort  of  theirs.  It  was 
a  high  rock,  the  top  of  which  was  carpeted  with 
many  generations  of  pine  needles,  and  screened 
from  the  vulgar  gaze  by  a  girdle  of  pine  trees. 
Here,  when  the  weather  was  warm  enough,  they 
would  stop  to  rest  for  a  little  after  their  jaunts  ; 
and  here,  though  he  never  suspected  it,  the  final 
chapter  of  Elias  Bacharach's  story  was  destined  to 
be  acted  out.  The  pine  trees  are  still  standing  and 
flourishing  :  but  they  are  inscrutable,  and  bear  no 
record,  breathe  no  hint,  of  the  tender  passages  be- 
tween these  lovers,  at  which  they  were  wont  to  assist. 

Often,  in  the  midst  of  his  work  in  his  studio, 
Elias  would  be  seized  by  a  sudden  and  uncon- 
trollable desire  to  pay  his  sweetheart  a  visit ;  and 
would  fling  aside  his  brushes,  discharge  his  model, 
hurry  up-town,  and  ring  her  door-bell.  Of  course, 
unapprised  of  his  coming,  she  would  not  always  be 
at  home  ;  but  if  the  maid  could  inform  him  whither 
she  had  gone,  he  would  be  sure  to  follow  ;  and  on 
more  than  one  occasion  he  caught  a  fine  cold, 
standing  in  the  wind-swept  street,  watching  the 
door  of  the  house  where  he  knew  that  she  was  call- 
ing, and  waiting  to  join  her  at  her  exit. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE   THORAH.  97 

Christmas  came,  and  New  Year's  Day,  and  her 
birthday,  and  his.  They  celebrated  all  of  these 
festivals  in  company.  For  New  Year's  Eve,  one  of 
Christine's  Normal  College  classmates  had  invited 
her  to  a  party.  Elias  naturally  was  her  cavalier. 
He  suffered  torments  indescribable,  as  she  whirled 
through  the  waltz  on  the  arm  of  another  man — he 
could  not  dance,  himself  ;  had  never  learned  how, 
poor  fellow — but  when,  from  the  corner  in  vrhich 
he  was  sulking  alone,  he  saw  that  the  heel  of  her 
slipper  had  broken  off,  and  that  her  partner  was 
holding  that  heel  in  his  hand,  and  inspecting  it 
with  curious  eyes,  he  could  no  longer  contain  him- 
self. Another  man  to  profane  with  his  touch  the 
heel  of  Christine's  slipper  !  He  advanced  upon  the 
couple,  scowling  savagely ;  and  addressing  the 
young  man :  "  Give  me  that,"  he  commanded 
gruffly.  He  got  hold  of  it,  and  stuck  it  into  his 
pocket.  Christine  shot  dagger-glances  at  him. 
On  their  way  home,  in  the  carriage,  she  scolded 
him  roundly  for  his  jealousy  and  his  bad  manners  ; 
but  before  they  separated,  she  had  forgiven  him  ; 
and  the  padded  carriage  walls  had  witnessed  a  very 
pretty  reconciliation.  That  night  he  sat  up  till 
daybreak,  writing  her  a  letter,  very  penitent,  very 
affectionate,  very  voluminous.  '*  That  we  should 
have  begun  the  New  Year  with  a  quarrel  !  "  was  its 
remorseful  burden.  At  eight  o'clock  he  dispatched 
it  by  a  messenger.  Yet  he  knew  that  at  ten  o'clock 
that  very  forenoon  she  would  be  ready  to  re- 
ceive   him   in  [proper  person.      But   ten  o'clock  ! 


9S  THE    YOKE    OF    THE    THORAil. 

Two  mortal   hours  !     It   seemed   years  and  years 
away. 

Time  moved  steadily  forward.  The  winter 
passed,  March  came,  an  exceptionally  mild,  sun- 
shiny March,  much  of  which  was  spent  among  the 
pine  trees  in  the  park  ;  then  April.  Their  wed- 
ding-day was  definitely  fixed  for  the  second  of  May. 
On  the  third,  they  were  to  set  sail  by  the  French 
steamship  for  Havre.  Their  tickets  were  bought, 
their  plans  were  all  made.  The  services  of  the 
clergyman  who  was  to  tie  the  knot,  had  been 
secured.  And  yet,  in  all  these  months,  not  a 
whisper  of  his  engagement  had  Elias  breathetl 
to  his  uncle,  the  Rabbi  Felix,  From  day  to 
day,  from  week  to  week,  he  had  put  off  the  in- 
evitable moment.  He  knew  that  nothing  which 
the  rabbi  could  say  or  do,  would  have  the  slightest 
effect  upon  him,  so  far  as  shaking  his  resolution 
was  concerned  ;  but  he  supposed  that  there  would 
be  a  scene,  and  a  very  stormy  and  disagreeable  one, 
and  he  dreaded  it ;  and  so  he  had  procrastinated — 
or,  as  he  phrased  it,  had  waited  for  a  favorable 
opportunity.  He  had  gone  on  living  in  the  same 
house,  eating  at  the  same  board,  with  this  old  man, 
his  uncle  ;  chatting  with  him,  even,  as  a  precaution 
against  possible  suspicions,  saying  his  prayers  and 
reading  his  Bible  with  him,  and  all  the  while  keeping 
the  one  dominant  fact  of  his  life  shut  close  in  from 
sight.  Sometimes  the  secret  weighed  very  heavily 
upon  his  mind,  pressed  hard  for  utterance,  got  even 
so  far  as  the  tip  of  his  tongue.     But  then,  asking 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  99 

himself,  ^'AVhat  good — what  but  bad — could  come 
of  my  telling  him  ?  "  he  would  decide  to  wait  for  yet 
another  while.  Perhaps  the  rabbi,  on  his  side,  had 
noticed  that  Elias  was  absent  from  home  a  good 
deal  ;  but,  considering  his  youth,  and  that  his  home 
was  such  a  dull,  unattractive  place,  what  wonder  ? 
What  else  could  be  expected  ?  I  must  not  forget  to 
state  that  some  rumors  to  the  effect  that  Elias  Bach- 
arach  intended  to  get  married,  were  circulating  in 
the  Jewish  world — which  is,  of  all  worlds,  the  one 
most  prone  to  gossip — but  these  failed  to  specify 
the  lady's  name,  and  took  for  granted  that  she  was 
a  Jewess  ;  and  the  rabbi  was  far  too  much  of  a 
recluse  to  be  reached  by  them,  any  how. 

With  the  Redwoods  Elias  had  been  perfectly 
frank.  He  had  said  to  the  old  man  :  "  I  suppose 
you  will  think  that  the  only  relative  I  have  in  this 
quarter  of  the  world — my  uncle.  Dr.  Gedaza — ought 
to  call  upon  you  ;  and  I  suppose  you'll  think  it  very 
singular  if  he  doesn't.  But  I  had  better  tell  you 
candidly  that  he  will  strongly  disapprove  of  my 
marriage,  sim.ply  and  solely  on  the  ridiculous  ground 
that  Christine  happens  not  to  have  been  born  a 
Jewess.  I  hope  you  won't  let  this  have  the  slightest 
influence  whatever  upon  you  ;  because  I'm  a  man, 
of  full  age  and  sound  mind,  master  of  my  own  purse 
and  person,  and  he's  only  my  uncle  ;  and,  with 
all  due  respect,  I  can't  see  that  my  marriage  is 
any  of  his  business."  In  the  end,  both  Christine 
and  her  father  had  accepted  Elias's  view  of  the 
case. 


loo  THE    YOKE   OF   THE   THORAH. 

Time  moved  steadily  forward,  and  now  it  was  the 
night  of  Tuesday,  the  first  of  May,  and  to-morrow 
Elias's  happiness  would  be  sealed  and  consum- 
mated. He  and  Christine  had  spent  a  very  ecstatic 
evening  with  each  other  ;  but,  of  course,  by  and  by 
it  behooved  him  to  take  his  leave  ;  and  so,  toward 
eleven  o'clock,  he  rose  and  began  the  process. 
About  midway  in  it,  however,  he  broke  off  and  said 
abruptly  :  "  Oh,  by  the  by,  I  forgot  to  tell  you 
something." 

"  Ah  ?  "  she  queried.     '*  What  ?  " 

"An  idea  I  had." 

"An  idea?" 

"  Yes  ;  about — about  breaking  the  news  to  my 
uncle." 

"  News  ?     What  news  ? " 

"Why,  the  news — the  news  of  our  marriage." 

"Why!  "she  exclaimed,  with  an  expression  of 
very  serious  surprise.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that — 
that  you  haven't  done  that  yet  ? " 

"  No ;  not  yet.  That's  just  the  point.  You 
see—" 

"  Oh,  Elias,"  she  interrupted,  in  a  tone  of  em- 
phatic rebuke,  "  I  supposed,  of  course,  you  had  told 
him  long  ago.  You  ought  to  have  told  him.  That 
wasn't  right." 

"What  difference  does  it  make?  I  have  waited 
about  it,  because  it  would  only  have  raised  trouble 
between  him  and  me,  without  doing  a  particle  of 
good  to  either.  There's  no  end  to  the  bother  and 
complications  it  would  have  caused.     He  lives  in 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  loi 

my  house,  you  know  ;  and  if  we  had  had  a  row,  he 
would  have  felt  obliged  to  clear  out,  and  all  that. 
So  I  kept  my  own  counsel  ;  and  I'm  very  glad  I 
did.  For  now  my  idea  is  to  say  nothing  to  him  at 
all ;  but  after  we're  safely  aboard-ship,  and  started 
for  the  other  side,  I'll  send  him  a  letter  by  the  pilot. 
That  will  spare  both  of  us  a  very  painful  and  unprof- 
itable interview."  •    >:' 

"  Oh,  but  it's  not  fair,  it's  not  honorable,  it's  not 
respectful.  He's  your  uncle — your  own  inother's' 
brother — and  you  owe  it  to  him  not  to  do  that — 
not  to  go  and  get  married  without  even  letting  him 
know.  You  ought  to  have  told  him  long  ago.  It 
will  hurt  his  feelings  awfully,  when  he  finds  out 
how  long  you  have  kept  it  from  him — when  he  finds 
that  you  have  waited  till  the  very  eleventh  hour. 
Now  you  must  tell  him  right  straight  away — as 
soon  as  you  possibly  can — to-night,  as  soon  as  you 
reach  home.     Promise  me  that  you  will." 

"But,  Christine—" 

"  No,  no,  no  !  Unless  you  want  to  make  me 
very  unhappy,  you'll  promise  to  tell  him  right  away. 
That  letter  by  the  pilot  !  I  don't  understand  how 
you  could  have  thought  of  such  a  thing  !  It  would 
be  cruel  and — and  it  would  be  coivardly  !     There  !  " 

Elias  tried  to  argue  the  matter.  But  Christine 
put  her  foot  down,  and  vowed,  with  a  look  of  in- 
flexible determination  upon  her  gentle  face,  that 
she  would  never,  never,  forgive  him,  unless  he 
made  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  the  rabbi  that  very 
night. 


I02  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

*'  But  it  is  late.  What  if  he  should  have  gone  to 
bed  ?  "  he  suggested  feebly. 

*'  Then  wake  him  up." 

Of  course,  before  they  parted,  he  had  pledged 
himself  to  do  exactly  as  she  wished  ;  and  she,  paci- 
fied, went  off  to  bed,  whether  to  sleep  or  to  lie 
awake,  in  either  case,  we  may  be  sure,  to  dream  of 
the '^happiness  that  was  ripening  for  her  in  the 
womb  of  time. 

,  ^Iras  did  not  enjoy  his  journey  home  that  night. 
His  frame  of  mind  was  by  no  means  such  as,  on 
general  principles,  one  would  expect  of  a  man  in 
his  position — a  man  who  had  just  said  his  last  fare- 
well to  the  lady  whom  he  loved,  and  whom  the  mor- 
row was  to  make  his  bride.  His  imagination  run^ 
ning  on  ahead  of  his  person,  entered  the  rabbi's 
study,  and  rehearsed  the  scene  that  would  there 
shortly  have  to  be  enacted  in  very  truth.  Elias 
was  surprised  at  the  excessive  dread  he  felt.  He 
strove  to  reason  it  away,  repeating  to  himself,  "He 
can  do  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  He  can  only 
talk  ;  and  talk  doesn't  hurt."  But  all  the  same, 
when  he  arrived  in  front  of  his  house,  and  realized 
that  the  long-deferred  moment  was  actually  at 
hand,  his  heart  quaked  within  him,  and  a  sudden 
perspiration  broke  out  upon  his  forehead.  How- 
ever, there  was  no  help  for  it.  He  had  promised  ; 
and  he  was  bound  to  keep  his  promise.  So,  draw- 
ing a  deep  breath,  and  swallowing  his  reluctance, 
he  opened  the  rabbi's  study  door. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  103 


IX. 


THE  rabbi  sat  before  his  empty  fire-place,  with 
slippered  feet  upon  the  hearth,  reading  to 
himself,  in  a  whisper,  from  the  current  number  of 
The  Jeivish  Messe?iger.  He  raised  his  eyes  absent- 
mindedly  upon  Elias's  face,  where  they  rested  for 
an  instant,  vacant  of  expression.  Then,  suddenly, 
they  lighted  up,  but  with  a  light  which  was  mani- 
festly that  of  alarm.  Throwing  aside  his  news- 
paper, and  half  rising  from  his  chair,  "  What— what 
is  the  matter  with  you  ? "  he  cried.  ''  AVhat  has 
happened  ? " 

"  Happened  ?  The  matter  with  me  ?  "  stammered 
Elias,  halting.     '*  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

*♦  Why,  boy,  you're  as  pale  as  death.  You  look — 
you  look  as  though  you  had  seen  a  ghost." 

Elias  forced  a  laugh,  a  faint  one. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said.  "  I'm  all  right.  Perhaps 
it's  the  shade  of  your  lamp.  The  light,  coming 
through  that  green,  is  enough  to  make  any  one  look 

livid." 

He  sat  down  opposite  the  rabbi,  and  struggled 
hard  to  appear  nonchalant  and  at  his  ease,  even 
going  to  the  length  of  lighting  a  cigarette.  He 
must  have  met  with  some  success  ;  for  presently  the 
rabbi,  who  had  not  ceased  to  regard  him  anxiously, 
ob.served  with  an  air  of  relief,  "  Yes,  I  guess  it  ims 
the  lamp-shade.  Now  that  you're  seated  and  out 
of  the  range  of  it,  you  look  as  usual.     But  when 


I04  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

you  first  came  in,  I  declare,  you  gave  me  quite  a 
turn."  With  which  he  picked  up  his  newspaper, 
found  his  place,  and  resumed  his  whispered  reading. 

Thus  for  a  few  minutes.  Then,  tossing  his  half- 
consumed  cigarette  into  the  grate,  "  I  wanted  to 
have  a  little  talk  with  you  to-night,  Uncle  Felix,  if 
you  don't  mind,"  Elias  said. 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  mind,"  the  rabbi  returned 
kindly,  lowering  his  paper.  "  What  did  you  want 
to  say  ? " 

"  Something  that  will  surprise  you,  I  suppose.  1 
wantev!  to  tell  you  that  I  am  thinking  of — of  getting 
married." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  "  cried  the  rabbi,  his  face  breaking 
into  a  smile.  "  Thinking  of  getting  married  !  Well, 
I'm  glad,  right  glad,  to  hear  it.  It's — you're  twenty- 
seven,  aren't  you  ? — it's  high  time." 

''  So  it  is,"  Elias  assented,  conscious  of  a  certain 
dismal  humor  in  the  situation. 

There  befell  a  silence,  during  which  the  rabbi, 
still  with  a  smile  upon  his  lips,  seemed  to  be  revolv- 
ing the  intelligence  in  his  mind. 

Pretty  soon,  "  Yes,  I  admit,  it  does  surprise  me," 
he  continued,  "  for,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  had  set  you 
down  for  a  pretty  confirmed  woman-hater.  But,  as 
I  say,  it's  high  time.  Men  wait  too  long  now-a- 
days  about  getting  married.  In  half  the  weddings 
that  I  perform,  the  bridegrooms  are  fully  thirty-five, 
and  many  of  them  are  upwards  of  forty.  Now,  in 
my  time,  it  was  different.  We  used  to  recognize 
marriage  as  a  religious  obligation — which  it  is,  in 


'  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  i^S 

fact— and  to  look  askance  at  a  man  who  was  still 
single  at  iive-and-twenty.  I  myself  was  married  at 
twenty-three." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  then  asked,  ''Well, 
have  you  begun  to  look  around  ?  " 

"  To  look  around  ? "  queried  Elias,  puzzled. 

"Exactly— for   a    young    lady,"    explained   the 

rabbi. 

"  Oh  !    Why,  no.     I  found  her  without  looking 

around." 

"  Found  her  ?     You  mean,  then,  that  you  have 

actually  made  a  choice  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course.  What  did  you  suppose  ?  " 
"  Oh,  I  thought  may  be  you  were  merely  consid- 
ering the  subject  abstractly— on  general  principles 
—and  had  decided  that  the  time  had  come.  But 
you  say  that  you  have  already  chosen  the  lady. 
Well,  I  declare,  how  close-mouthed  you  have  kept ! 
—I  suppose  now,"  he  added,  ''  you  want  me  to  open 
negotiations,  eh  ?" 

"  Negotiations  ?     How  do  you  mean  ?  " 
"  Why,  with  her  parents,  of  course.     Ask  for  her 
hand — declare  your  sentiments." 
"  Oh,  no  ;  that  isn't  necessary." 
"  No  ?     How  so  ?  " 

"  Why,  I've  done  all  that  for  myself.  I  have 
proposed,  and— and  been  accepted." 

"  You  have  !  You  don't  say  so  !  Oh,  you  sly, 
secretive  rascal  !  Well,  I  congratulate  you.  ^  You 
ought  to  have  stuck  to  the  good,  old-fashioned 
custom,  and  had  me  make  the  first  advances  ;  but 


io6  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAB. 

I  congratulate  you,  all  the  same.  What's  her 
name  ?  Who  is  she  ?  One  of  our  congregation  ? 
Tell  me  all  about  her." 

The  rabbi  sat  forward  in  his  chair,  curiosity 
incarnate.  His  pale  skin  had  become  slightly 
flushed.  His  eyes,  beaming  over  the  gold  bows  of 
his  spectacles,  were  fixed  intently  upon  his  nephew's 
face. 

Elias  had  not  enjoyed  this  beating  about  the 
bush  ;  but  he  had  lacked  both  the  courage  and  the 
tact  to  put  an  end  to  it.  Now,  however,  when  its 
end  had  arrived  naturally,  in  the  course  of  circum- 
stances, he  wished  that  it  might  have  been  indef- 
initely prolonged  ;  so  great,  so  unreasonable,  was 
the  dread  he  felt. 

"  Her  name,"  he  began — he  looked  hard  at  the 
floor  ;  and  his  voice  was  a  trifle  unsteady — *'  she's 
a  young  American  lady  ;  and  her  name  is  Redwood 
— Miss  Christine  Redwood." 

For  an  instant  the  rabbi's  appearance  did  not 
change.  It  no  doubt  needed  that  instant  for  his 
mind  to  appreciate  the  purport  of  what  his  ears  had 
heard.  But  all  at  once,  the  flush  across  his  fore- 
head first  deepened  to  a  vivid  crimson,  and  then 
faded  quite  away,  leaving  the  skin  waxen  white, 
with  the  blue  veins  distended  upon  it.  A  dart  of 
light,  like  an  electric  spark,  shot  from  his  eyes, 
which  then  filled  with  an  opaque,  smoky  darkness. 
His  lips  twitched  a  little  ;  his  fmgers  clenched  con- 
vulsively. He  started  backward  a  few  inches  into 
his  chair.     His  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  whose 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  107 

faculties  have  been  scattered  and  confounded  by  a 
sudden,  tremendous  blow. 

But  this  attitude  the  rabbi  retained  for  scarcely 
the  time  it  takes  to  draw  a  breath.  Almost  at  once 
beseemed  to  recover  himself.  His  fingers  relaxed. 
His  face  regained  its  ordinary  composure.  In  a 
low  voice,  with  not  a  trace  of  perturbation,  coldly, 
even  indifferently  : 

"  A  young  American  lady  ?  Miss  Christine — ? 
Be  kind  enough  to  repeat  the  name,"  he  said. 

EHas,  continuing  to  stare  hard  at  the  floor,  re- 
peated it  :  "  Redwood — Miss  Christine  Redwood." 

Then,  with  bowed  head  and  trembling  heart,  he 
waited  for  the  outbreak  which,  he  supposed,  of 
course,  would  come.  He  stared  at  the  floor — 
taking  vague^note  of  the  patch  of  carpet  at  his 
feet,  remarking  how  threadbare  it  was  worn,  how 
faded  its  colors  were,  remarking  even  how,  at  a 
certain  point,  a  bent  pin  stuck  upward  from  it — 
stared  at  the  floor,  and  waited.  But  the  rabbi 
spoke  no  word.  The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece 
licked,  ticked,  ticked  ;  suddenly,  from  its  interior, 
sppnded  a  quick  whir  of  machinery,  and  then  a  single 
clear  stroke  of  its  bell — half-after  midnight.  Next 
instant  the  clock  of  St.  George's  church,  across  the 
park,  responded  with  a  deep,  reverberating  boom. 
Elias  waited  ;  and  still  the  rabbi  did  not  speak. 
Such  silence  was  incomprehensible,  exaspera- 
ting, ominous.  All  the  more  violent,  for  this 
delay,  would  the  storm  be,  when  it  broke, 
Elias    thought.     He    did    not    dare    to    look    the 


io8  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

rabbi  squarely  in  the  face,  to  meet  his  eye  ;  but  he 
stole  a  glance,  swift  enough  to  escape  arrest,  and 
yet  deliberate  enough  to  see  that  the  rabbi  was  still 
seated,  just  as  before,  in  his  chair  ;  and  then  he 
returned  to  his  contemplation  of  the  carpet.  Yes, 
the  silence  was  exasperating,  even  unbearable. 
Why  did  he  not  say  his  say,  scold,  plead,  exhort, 
curse,  empty  the  phials  of  his  wrath,  and  have  done 
with  it  ?  Elias  waited  till  his  over-taxed  nerves 
could  endure  the  suspense  no  longer  ;  when, 
teeth  gritted,  tone  defiant,  **  Redwood,"  he  re- 
peated for  a  third  time.     *'  Don't  you  hear  ? " 

The  rabbi  vouchsafed  no  syllable  in  reply  ;  but 
his  lips  curled  in  a  slight,  enigmatic  smile. 

Again  Elias  found  himself  constrained  to  wait. 
He  waited  till  the  silence  had  again  grown  insup- 
portable. At  length,  springing  to  his  feet,  "  For 
God's  sake,"  he  cried,  ''  why — why  don't  you 
speak  ? " 

"  Speak  ? "  echoed  the  rabbi,  with  the  same  in- 
scrutable smile,  and  a  scarcely  perceptible  shrug  of 
the  shoulders.     "  What  is  there  to  say  ? " 

"  Say — say  any  thing.  I  don't  care  what  you 
say,"  Elias  cried  passionately.  "  Only,  this  silence 
— if  you  want  to  drive  me  crazy,  keep  it  up.  It 
makes  me  feel  as  if — as  if  my  head  would  burst 
open."  He  crushed  his  hands  hard  against  his 
temples.  *^  Go  on.  Speak.  Curse  me.  Any 
thing.  Only,  don't  sit  there  that  way,  as  though 
you  had  been  struck  dumb," 

"  Come,    come,    Elias !     Stop    your   bellowing. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  1 09 

Stop  Storming  about  like  that.  Sit  down — there, 
where  you  were  before.  Be  quiet.  Be  rational. 
Then,  if  you  wish,  we  can  talk." 

Elias  dropped  into  his  chair. 

"I'm  quiet.  I'm  rational,"  he  groaned.  "Go 
ahead." 

"Well,  really,"  the  rabbi  submitted.  "I  don't 
see  that  there  is  much  to  be  said." 

"  Not  much  to  be  said  !  For  heaven's  sake  ! 
Haven't  you  heard  ?  Haven't  you  understood  ? 
Haven't  I  told  you  that  I  am  going  to  marry  a 
Christian  ? " 

"  There's  no  need  of  screaming  at  me,  Elias. 
Yes.  I  have  understood.  When — when  was  it 
your  intention  that  this  marriage  should  take 
place  ? " 

"  To-morrow.  It  takes  place  to-morrow  evening 
at  half  past  eight  o'clock." 

"Indeed?  So  soon?  Why  have  you  waited  so 
long  about  telling  me  ?  Or,  having  waited  so  long, 
why  did  you  tell  me  at  all  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     Many  reasons.     I   thought — " 

"  Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter.  It  makes  no  dif- 
ference," the  rabbi  interrupted,  and  again  relapsed 
into  silence. 

"  Well  ? "  ventured  Elias,  interrogatively. 

"  Well,  what  ?  "  returned  the  rabbi. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  go  on  ?  Finish  what 
you've  got  to  say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  thing  more  to 
say." 


no  THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH. 

"  Any  thing  more  !  You  haven't  said  any  thing  at 
all,  as  yet." 

•'  Well,  then,  I  don't  know  that  I  have  any  thing 
at  all  to  say." 

"  Good  God  !  "  Elias  broke  out  furiously.  "  You 
— you'll — what  is  the  matter  with  you,  any  how  ?  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  going  to  marry  a  Christian  ; 
and  you — you  sit  there — like — like  I  don't  know 
what — and  answer  that  you  have  nothing  to  say 
about  it  !  " 

"  Precisely ;  because,  indeed,  I  have  nothing  to 
say  about  it — except  this,  that  the  marriage  will 
never  take  place.     That's  all." 

"  Never  take  place  I  I  give  it  up.  What  in 
reason's  name  do  you  mean  ?  " 

**  I  mean  what  I  say." 

"  That  we — she  and  I — are — are  not  going  to  get 
married,  after  all  ? " 

•'Yes." 

"  But  haven't  I  told  you  that  our  marriage 
comes  off  to-morrow  night  ? " 

"  Yes." 

*'Well?" 

"  Well,  you  have  told  me  so  ;  but  you  are  mis- 
taken." 

"  Mistaken  !     I  think  you  must  have  gone  mad." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  The  marriage  won't  come  off 
to-morrow  night,  nor  any  other  night." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what's  to  prevent  it." 

"  It  will  be  prevented." 

"  I  don't  just  see  how." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  m 

"  Wait,  and  you  shall  see." 

"  By  whom  ?  By  you,  for  example  ?  If  so,  by 
what  means  ? " 

**  Oh,  no  ;  not  by  me." 

"  By  whom,  then  ?  " 

Elias  put  this  question,  smiling  defiantly. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  deep  stillness  in  the 
room,  broken  only  by  the  ticking  of  the  clock. 
Then  the  rabbi  rose  to  his  feet,  advanced  close  to 
Elias,  and  stood  facing  him.  With  an  expression 
of  immense  dignity  upon  his  white,  delicately 
modeled  features,  quietly,  gravely,  in  a  tone  of 
serene  conviction  :  *'  Elias,"  he  said,  "  by  the  Lord 
our  God,  the  God  of  Israel." 

Elias's  smile  died  out.  He  recoiled  with  a  start 
into  his  chair  ;  and  for  an  instant  all  the  blood  left 
his  lips.  But  then,  with  an  attempt  at  lightness 
which  was  somehow  very  unbecoming,  ''  Oh,  so  ? 
You  mean,  I  suppose,  that  the  Lord  will  strike  me 
dead — or  afflict  me  with  a  paralysis — or  something 
of  that  kind — yes  ? " 

Quite  unscathed  by  his  nephew's  irony,  slowly, 
seriously,  without  raising  his  voice,  "  I  mean,  Elias," 
the  rabbi  pursued,  "  that  you  had  better  beware. 
You  expected  me — when,  at  midnight,  3'ou  burst  in 
here,  pale  with  guilt,  and  made  the  announcement 
that  within  twenty-four  hours  you  were  going  to 
transgress  all  the  laws  of  our  religion,  by  marrying 
a  woman  who  is  not  of  our  race  or  faith — you 
expected  me — didn't  you  ?-— to  reason  with  you,  to 
picture  to  you  the  awful  consequences  that  must 
follow  upon  such  a  sin,  to  plead  with  you   in  the 


112  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

name  of  your  dead  father  and  mother,  to  entreat  you, 
to  endeavor  in  every  possible  way  to  get  you  to  give 
up  your  insane,  suicidal  idea.  You  expected  me, 
as  you  have  said,  to  curse  you  ;  or,  that  failing,  to 
fall  upon  my  knees,  and  beseech  you. — Well,  you 
see — and,  to  judge  from  your  actions,  you  see  with 
some  surprise,  even  with  some  disappointment — 
that  I  do  none  of  these  things,  that  I  do  nothing  of 
the  kind.  Why  ?  Because,  as  I  have  told  you,  the 
marriage  you  speak  of  will  never  take  place. 
There  is  not  a  single  chance  of  its  taking  place 
— not  any  more  chance  of  its  taking  place,  than 
there  is  of  the  sun's  failing  to  rise  to-morrow 
morning.  Neither  I,  nor  any  man,  need  raise  a 
finger,  need  speak  a  word.  The  Lord  God  of 
Israel,  Elias  Bacharach,  has  His  eye  upon  you.  He 
will  prevent  this  marriage  from  taking  place.  And 
all  I  say  to  you  is — what  I  said  at  the  beginning — 
look  out  !     Beware  !  " 

The  rabbi  had  spoken  very  earnestly,  but  very 
quietly,  and  without  a  touch  of  excitement.  Having 
concluded,  he  went  back  to  his  chair,  took  off  his 
spectacles,  wiped  their  lenses  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  unconcernedly  replaced  them  upon  the  bridge 
of  his  nose. 

Elias  had  sat  still,  nervously  twitching  his  foot, 
and  allowing  his  eyes  to  roam  vacantly  about  the 
room.  Now,  for  a  moment,  he  kept  his  peace. 
Then,  "  You  don't  state  the  grounds  for  this  singu- 
lar and  no  doubt  comforting  belief,  nor  do  you 
specify  the  methods  by  which  the  Lord  is  to  accom- 
plish the  result.     I  should  like  to  know,  if  it  is  the 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH,  II3 

some  to  you,  just  what  to  expect.  Am  I,  as  I 
suggested,  to  be  incapacitated  bodily  ?  By  paraly- 
sis ?     By  death?     Or  what  ?  " 

^'  I  don't  choose  to  state  the  grounds  of  my 
belief,  Elias,  nor  to  specify  in  any  respect,  nor, 
indeed,  to  discuss  the  question  at  all  with  you — 
especially  when  you  see  fit  to  adopt  that  insolent 
and  blasphemous  tone  of  voice*  I  will  simply 
repeat — what  I  hope  you  will  reflect  upon,  and  take 
to  heart — that  you  had  best  beware.  Now  I  wish 
to  be  left  alone.  I  shall  see  you  again  in  the 
morning.     Good-night." 

Elias  rose. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  take  the  matter  so  easily, 
Uncle  Felix  ;  and  since  you  practically  put  me  out, 
good-night." 


X. 


AS  he  had  done  upon  a  former  and  slightly  simi- 
lar occasion,  and  as  he  was  wont  to  do  when- 
ever his  spirits  were  in  any  degree  perturbed,  Elias 
climbed  up-stairs  to  his  studio,  and  sat  down  at  the 
window.  All  day  long  the  sun  had  shone  bright 
and  hot  ;  but  ever  since  dusk  the  sky  had  been 
clouding  over  ;  and  now,  plainly,  a  thunder-storm 
was  near  at  hand.  The  atmosphere  was  thick,  still, 
tepid.  With  increasing  frequency,  shafts  of  jagged 
lightning  tore  their  way  through  the  clouds,  and 
were  followed  by  long,  sullen,  distant  rumblings,  as 


114  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH, 

of  suppressed  fury  somewhere.  Suddenly  a  breeze 
sprang  up,  swelling  quickly  into  a  strong  wind. 
The  air  filled  with  dust.  The  branches  of  the  trees, 
over  in  the  park,  groaned  aloud  ;  and  from  here 
and  there  came  the  noise  of  banging  shutters,  and 
of  loose  things  generally  being  knocked  about.  The 
flames  in  the  street-lamps  below  flared  violently. 
Some  of  them  went_^out.  Big  drops  of  lukewarm 
water  began  to  fall,  splashing  audibly  where  they 
struck.  All  at  once,  a  blinding  flash,  a  deafening 
peal  of  thunder,  from  right  overhead  ;  and  the  rain 
came  pouring  down  in  torrents. 

Now,  of  course,  Elias  Bacharach — he  in  whose 
soul  the  man  had  long  since  worsted  the  Jew,  and 
reason  abolished  superstition — of  course,  Elias 
knew  that  what  his  uncle  had  said  about  the  God 
of  Israel  interposing  to  prevent  his  marriage,  was 
the  sheerest  sort  of  rubbish.  That  the  old  gentle- 
man had  spoken  in  good  faith — that  he  really 
believed  in  the  validity  of  his  own  prophecies,  and 
had  not  uttered  them  merely  with  a  view  to  working 
upon  his  hearer's  imagination,  and  exciting  his 
fears — Elias  could  not  doubt  ;  for  to  resort  to  such 
strategy  was  not,  he  conceived,  in  the  character  of 
the  artless  and  simple-minded  rabbi.  But  that  very 
good  faith  only  proved  him  to  be  the  victim  of  a 
most  preposterous  delusion.  For  himself,  Elias  had 
no  misgivings.  As  confident  as  a  mortal  can  be  of 
any  future  event,  in  this  world  of  uncertainties,  so 
confident  was  he  that  the  morrow  evening  would 
make   of   him   and  Christine   man   and   wife.     Of 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  115 

course,there  was  always  the  unforeseen  to  be  allowed 
for  ;  accidents  were  always  possible.  But  if  he  had 
none  but  supermundane  obstacles  to  dread,  then  he 
might  regard  his  marriage  as  already  an  accom- 
plished fact.  And,  notwithstanding,  Elias  felt  very 
much  disturbed — very  much  annoyed,  mystified, 
and  ill-at-ease.  All  that  the  rabbi  had  said  was 
stuff  and  nonsense,  at  absolute,  obvious  variance 
with  science,  with  simple  common  sense — fit 
material  for  laughter,  for  a  certain  contemptuous 
pity  ;  but,  nevertheless,  every  time  that  Elias  re- 
called just  what  the  rabbi  had  said,  and  the  rabbi's 
manner  of  saying  it,  he  felt  a  sharp,  inward  pang, 
very  like  terror  ;  he  had  to  catch  a  quick,  short 
breath  ;  and  he  confessed  to  himself  that  he  would 
give  a  good  deal  to  be  enabled  to  get  inside  the 
rabbi's  consciousness,  and  learn  the  grounds  on 
which  he  based  his  extraordinary,  but  apparently 
secure,  conviction,  and  find  out  exactly  what  form 
of  divine  interference  he  anticipated.  Despite  his 
clear  perception  of  the  rabbi's  sophistry,  he  caught 
himself  furtively  querying  :  *'  Can  there  be  any 
thing  in  it  ? "  Despite  his  assurance  that  all 
would  go  well,  he  caught  himself  furtively  wishing 
that  all  was  well  over,  and  his  marriage-certificate 
signed  and  sealed.  "  There  is  not  a  single  chance 
of  its  taking  place — not  any  more  chance  of  its 
taking  place  than  there  is  of  the  sun's  failing  to 
rise  to-morrow  morning."  That  phrase  stuck  like 
a  thorn  in  his  mind,  and  produced  a  considerable 
irritation. 


Ii6  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

This  state  of  things,  besides  being  intrinsically 
unpleasant,  was  offensive  to  Elias's  self-esteem. 
That  he,  at  his  age,  in  his  stage  of  enlightenment, 
should  be  unsettled  by  the  senseless  menaces  of  a 
superstitious  old  bigot  !  Like  a  child  frightened 
by  its  nurse's  bugaboo.  And  yet,  there  it  was 
again,  the  sharp,  internal  twinge,  so  like  the  sting 
of  terror  ;  and  there  again  he  fell  to  speculating 
upon  what  the  causes  of  the  old  man's  singular 
belief  could  be. 

He  sat  at  his  window,  peered  out  into  the  night, 
and  tried  to  think  of  something  else.  He  tried  to 
think  of  Christine,  tried  to  call  up  her  image,  tried 
to  live  over  again  the  evening  that  he  had  passed 
with  her,  tried  to  picture  to  himself  the  happiness 
that  the  coming  day  held  in  store.  No  use. 
"  There  is  no  more  chance  of  its  taking  place, 
than  there  is  of  the  sun's  failing  to  rise  to-morrow 
morning."  The  rabbi's  voice  kept  ringing  in  his 
ears,  like  a  hateful  tune  that  one  has  heard,  and 
can't  get  rid  of.  The  painful  emotions  it  awoke, 
kept  rankling  in  his  bosom,  and  crowded  out  all 
the  sweeter  ones  that  sought  to  enter.  He  could 
fix  his  mind  permanently  upon  no  subject  but  the 
rabbi's  irrational  predictions.  He  tried  to  stir  up  a 
little  interest  in  the  thunder-storm.  There  it  was, 
raging  furiously  just  outside  his  open  window  ; 
rain  dashing  earthward  like  a  loosened  flood  ;  light- 
ning-flash following  lightning-flash,  and  thunder- 
clap thunder-clap,  in  rapid,  tumultuous,  terrifying 
succession  ;  enough,  one  would  fancy,  to  arrest  and 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  Ii7 

to  appall  the  attention  of  any  conscious  being, 
human  or  even  brute,  within  the  reach  of  sight  or 
sound  ;  but  Elias's  attention  it  held  for  a  moment 
only.  Then  his  mind  sped  back  to  the  subject 
which  he  was  most  anxious  to  avoid.  '*  Not  a 
single  chance — not  any  more  chance  than  there  is 
of  the  sun's  failing  to  rise  !  " 

The  clock  of  St.  George's  Church  struck  two. 
What  was  the  rabbi  doing  now  ?  Elias  wondered. 
Had  he  gone  to  bed  ?  Or  was  he,  perhaps,  still 
down  stairs  in  his  study  ? — praying,  perhaps,  that 
the  Lord  would  in  no  wise  dishonor  His  servant's 
pledges.  At  this  notion,  Elias  involuntarily 
ground  his  teeth.  "  Praying  for  mischief  !  "  he 
thought.  "  And  what — what  if,  after  all,  there 
should  be  some  efficacy  in  that  sort  of  prayer  !  " — 
He  remembered  and  rejoiced  that  he  had  told  the 
rabbi  nothing  further  about  Christine  than  her 
name — neither  her  father's  name,  nor  her  place  of 
abode.  Otherwise,  the  rabbi  might  have  deemed  it 
his  duty  to  constitute  himself  heaven's  instrument, 
and,  by  intimidating  the  bride,  have  caused  pain 
and  trouble,  if  not,  temporarily  at  least,  have  pre- 
vented the  wedding  from  proceeding.  In  his 
fanaticism,  what  might  he  not  be  capable  of  doing  ? 

The  rain,  beating  upon  the  window-sill,  spattered 
inward,  wetting  Elias's  clothing.  When,  by  and 
by,  he  became  aware  that  his  coat-sleeve  had  got 
soaked  through,  he  left  his  seat,  closed  the  window, 
and  lighted  the  gas. 

His  studio — in  anticipation  of  his  coming  trip  to 


Il8  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

Europe,  and  subsequent  change  of  residence — he 
had  pretty  well  dismantled,  having  packed  away  in 
dark  closets  and  camphor-chests,  the  most  part  of 
such  goods  and  chattels  as  dust  or  moth  can  cor- 
rupt. Little,  indeed,  was  left  out,  save  three  or 
four  chairs,  a  life-size  lay-figure  stripped  of  its 
draperies,  an  easel  or  two,  and  a  few  time-blackened 
plaster  casts  fastened  to  the  wall.  But  over  in  one 
corner  there  was  heaped  up  an  assortment  of  mis- 
cellaneous odds  and  ends,  the  accumulation  of  half 
a  dozen  years,  which,  now,  as  his  eye  noted  it,  Elias 
remembered,  he  had  meant  to  overhaul,  with  a  view 
to  laying  aside  whatever  he  should  think  worth 
keeping,  and  consigning  the  rest  to  the  rag-and- 
bottle  man.  In  the  hurry  and  excitement  of  the 
past  few  days,  however,  he  had  forgotten  all  about  it. 

For  a  little  while  Elias  stood  still,  blinking  in  the 
new-made  gas-light,  and  gazing  rather  vacantly  at 
this  old  lumber-pile.  Then,  suddenly,  a  gleam  as  of 
inspiration  brightening  his  features,  '*  What  time," 
he  asked  himself,  "  could  be  better  than  the  pi  sent  ? 
If  I  go  to  bed,  I  shall  only  toss  about,  without  sleep- 
ing ;  whereas,  if  I  do  this,  it  will  be  an  improve- 
ment upon  sitting  idle,  and  brooding,  any  how." 

With  which,  straightway,  he  whipped  off  his  coat, 
drew  up  a  chair,  and,  not  incurious  as  to  what  long- 
lost  objects  he  might  possibly  unearth,  started  upon 
the  forgotten  task. 

Paint-rags,  besmeared  with  a  thousand  colors  ; 
torn  canvases,  bearing  half-fniished,  half-begun,  or 
half-obliterated  studies  ;  paint-tubes,  half-emptied, 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  119 

in  which  the  remaining  paint  had  congealed,  or 
"  fatted  "  ;  worn-out  brushes,  broken  palettes,  shat- 
tered maul-sticks,  fragments  of  old  casts  and  orna- 
ments in  plaster  or  terra-cotta  ;  letters  without 
envelopes,  envelopes  without  letters  ;  newspapers, 
pamphlets,  exhibition  catalogues,  magazines,  cir- 
culars, tailor's  bills,  cracked  bottles,  cigarette- 
stumps,  cast-off  gloves,  pocket  handkerchiefs, 
cravats  ;  all  sheeted  over  with  fine,  black  dust,  and 
all  exhaling  a  musty,  oily  odor  ;  these  were  the  ele- 
ments that  predominated,  and  most  of  these  Elias 
tossed  pell-mell  to  the  middle  of  the  floor,  for  the 
m.aid  to  carry  away  in  the  morning.  To  divert  one's 
thoughts  from  some  persistent  and  exasperating 
topic,  it  is  a  commonplace,  there  is  nothing  like  busy- 
ing one's  fingers  ;  manual  exercise  being  the  surest 
means  to  the  end  of  mental  rest.  Pretty  soon  Elias's 
late  encounter  with  his  uncle  had  sunken  out  of 
mind — only  occasionally,  for  brief  intervals,  to 
struggle  up,  and  agitate  the  surface — and  agreeably 
interested  in  his  present  occupation,  he  was  whis- 
tling softly  to  himself,  indifferent  alike  to  the 
perspiration  that  bathed  his  forehead,  to  the  dust 
that  penetrated  his  nostrils,  and  to  the  dirt  that 
took  lodgment  upon  his  hands. 

Meanwhile,  the  thunder  and  lightning  had  ceased, 
and  the  rain  had  settled  into  a  steady  drizzle. 

Elias's  first  notable  find  was  a  pretty  little  gold 
lead-pencil,  one,  he  recognized,  that  had  been  sent 
him,  as  a  present,  on  his  twenty-first  birthday,  by 
an  aunt  of  his—his  father's  only  sister — who  lived 


I20  THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH. 

in  New  Orleans,  and  whom  he  had  never  seen.  It 
had  got  lost,  in  a  most  inexplicable  manner,  very 
soon  after  its  reception  ;  and,  conscience-smitten, 
Elias  now  recollected  how  he  had  suspected,  to  the 
degree  of  moral  certainty,  a  poor  devil  of  an  Italian 
model  of  having  stolen  it.  Well,  here  it  was,  intact  ; 
and  so,  poor  Archimede  had  been  innocent,  after  all. 
Holding  it  in  his  hand,  and  examining  it  a  little, 
before  putting  it  into  his  pocket,  and  going  on  with 
his  work,  Elias  felt  himself  suddenly  carried  back- 
ward, for  an  instant,  to  the  period  with  which  it 
was  associated.  Talismanic  pencil,  that  had  power 
to  raise  the  dead,  and  annihilate  the  intervening 
years  !  There  it  lay,  in  shape,  weight,  color,  in 
length,  breadth,  thickness,  in  all  its  attributes  and 
dimensions,  precisely  the  same  as  on  that  far-off 
birthday  morning,  when  his  mother,  to  whose  care 
his  aunt  had  entrusted  it,  delivered  it  to  him,  neatly 
boxed  up  in  pasteboard,  wrapped  in  tissue-paper, 
and  sealed  with  red  sealing-wax.  How  well  he 
remembered  !  It  might  have  been  last  week.  It 
might  almost  have  been  yesterday.  And  yet,  how 
much,  indeed  how  much,  had  happened  since.  At 
the  breakfast-table,  she  had  said,  *'  Here,  Elias, 
here  is  something  your  Aunt  Rachel  has  sent  you 
— something  that  you  will  prize  especially,  because 
she  is  not  at  all  rich,  and  has  doubtless  had  to 
pmch  and  deny  herself,  in  order  to  buy  it."  Then 
she  offered  him  the  parcel,  which  he,  touched,  sur- 
prised, expectant,  took  and  opened,  finding  within 
this  same  little  pencil ;  and  not  it  only,  but  wound 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  121 

around  it,  a  bit  of  writing  in  his  Aunt  Rachel's 
hand — the  traditional  Hebrew  bensch  :  *'  May  the 
Lord  make  you  to  be  great,  like  Ephraim  and 
Manasseh  !  "  And  immediately,  of  course,  in  his 
boyish  enthusiasm,  he  had  set  himself  down,  and 
put  the  pencil  to  its  virgin  use,  by  inditing  with  it 
a  glowing  note  of  thanks — about  the  only  use  he 
ever  had  put  it  to,  for  very  soon  afterward  it  dis- 
appeared. And  then,  the  rest,  the  rest  of  that  won- 
derful, never-to-be-forgotten  day!  The  pride  and  the 
triumph  of  it !  The  masterpiece  of  a  dinner  that 
his  mother  had  prepared.  The  check  for  a  daz- 
zling sum  of  money,  that  he  had  found  adroitly 
folded  in  with  his  napkin  !  The  toothsome  nut- 
cake,  with  its  twenty-one  symbolic  candles  !  The 
wine  that  had  been  drunken  to  his  health  !  The 
speech  that  the  rabbi  had  made,  standing  up  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  and  haranguing  away  as  though 
he  had  had  an  audience  of  a  thousand,  instead  of 
only  Elias  and  his  mother — the  mother,  however, 
listening  amid  tears  and  smiles,  and  applauding 
and  nodding  her  head,  as  the  splendid  achieve- 
ments which  the  future  was  to  behold  at  the  hands 
of  her  son,  were  prophetically  described.  The 
watch  the  rabbi  had  given  him  ! — the  same  that  was 
ticking  in  his  waistcoat-pocket  at  this  very  instant. 
And  the  prayer  that  the  rabbi  had  chanted  !  And 
how  Elias  himself,  with  swelHng  heart,  had  joined 
in  the  invocation  :  "  Holy,  holy  Lord,  Thou  Who 
art  one  God  !  "  and  had  vowed  silently  that,  by 
the  Lord's  help,  he  tvould  "  strive  to  become  good 


12^2  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

in  the  sight  of  men,  and  a  pride  unto  his  people." 
How  well  he  remembered,  thanks  to  this  little  pen- 
cil, precisely  the  same  now  as  then,  quite  un- 
changed.  But  oh,  what  a  changed  Elias,  he  in 
whose  palm  it  lay  !  How  all  the  conditions  of  his 
life,  and  all  his  interests  and  purposes  in  life,  and 
all  his  convictions  about  life,  had  changed  since 
then  !  How  little  he  had  dreamed  in  those  days 
of  what  was  coming  !  Strange,  that  he  should  have 
had  no  premonition  of  it.  Strange,  that  he  should 
have  gone  on  in  peace  and  contentment,  treading 
his  level  path,  forward,  forward,  unsuspectingly, 
and  never  have  caught  a  glimpse,  never  have  got 
an  inkling,  of  what  was  waiting  for  him,  of  what 
each  step  was  bringing  him  so  much  the  nearer  to, 
of  what  presently  was  to  burst  upon  him  in  a  glory 
Jike  that  of  heaven,  and  utterly  revolutionize  him- 
self and  all  his  world.  Strange,  indeed  !  And  yet,  in 
those  old,  simple,  tranquil  days,  he  had  been  happy, 
very  happy,  in  a  simple,  tranquil  way  ;  and  now,  as  he 
looked  back  at  them,  they  shone  suffused  in  a  rose- 
colored  enchantment  ;  and  he  could  feel  his  heart 
reach  out  toward  them,  with  a  strong  longing 
affection,  which,  though  melancholy,  was  not  un- 
mixed v/ith  sweetness. 

Deep,  engrossing,  and  of  long  duration,  was  the 
train  of  associations  that  had  thus  been  started. 
The  church  clock  across  the  park  rang  the  half 
hour,  before  Elias  finally  roused  himself,  and 
renewed  his  attack  upon  the  lumber  heap. 

For   a  good    while  he   struck  nothing  more   of 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  123 

interest — nothing  that  he  cared  to  save,  or  even  to 
look  at  twice.  But  by  and  by  he  fished  out  a 
sketch-book,  which,  to  judge  from  the  dilapidated 
state  of  its  binding,  must  have  been  pretty  old,  and 
over  which  he  paused,  beating  it  against  the  floor, 
to  rid  it  of  some  of  its  dust,  and  then  opening  it, 
to  inspect  its  contents.  On  the  fly-leaf  he  found 
his  initials,  "  E.  B.,"  and  a  date,  ''  January,  1876." 
Listlessly  turning  the  pages,  he  was  somewhat 
amused,  and  a  good  deal  ashamed,  to  perceive  how 
poor  and  crude  the  drawings  were — heads,  for  the 
most  part,  with  only  here  and  there  a  full-length 
figure  ;  and  he  congratulated  himself  not  a  little 
that  he  had  thus  chanced  to  run  across  it,  because 
now  he  could  destroy  it,  and  so  make  sure  that 
nobody  else  should  ever  have  the  satisfaction  of 
seeing  what  wretched  stuff  he  had  once  been  ca- 
pable of  perpetrating.  He  supposed  that  the 
sketches  had  nearly  all  been  intended  as  portraits, 
but  in  the  main  he  could  not  place  them — could 
not  remember  the  persons  who  had  served  as 
models.  One  face  kept  repeating  itself  ;  there 
were  as  many  as  a  dozen  separate  studies  of  it  ;  the 
face  of  a  young  man,  aged,  presumably,  nineteen  or 
twenty  years  ;  strangely  familiar  ;  the  face  of  some 
one,  beyond  doubt,  whom  he  must  have  known  in- 
timately ;  and  yet,  knitting  his  brows,  and  exerting 
his  memory  to  the  utmost,  he  was  quite  unable  to 
recall  the  original.  Odd  ;  and  intensely  annoying, 
as  baffled  memory  is  apt  to  be  ;  until,  of  a  sudden, 
with  a  thrill  of  recognition  that  was  by  no  means 


124  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH 

agreeable,  he  identified  it  as  himself.  A  few  pages 
further  along,  again  with  a  sudden  thrill,  but  this 
time  with  a  far  stronger  and  deeper  one,  he  came 
upon  a  portrait  of  his  mother.  It  was  badly  drawn, 
finical,  over-elaborated  ;  the  draperies  rigid  as 
iron  ;  the  flesh  wooden  ;  the  pose — she  was  seated, 
reading — awkward,  and  anatomically  impossible  ; 
and  yet,  spite  of  all,  it  was  an  excellent,  even  a 
startling,  likeness  ;  and  happening  upon  it  in  this 
unexpected  manner,  Elias  felt  a  not  unnatural 
heart-leap  and  quickening  of  the  pulse.  When,  or 
under  what  circumstances,  he  had  made  it,  he  could 
not  think.  He  bent  forward  in  his  chair,  gazed 
intently  at  it,  and  tried  hard  to  recollect.  If  the 
date  on  the  fly-leaf  was  trustworthy,  it  must,  of 
course,  have  been  after  the  first  of  January,  1876  ; 
but  in  his  own  memory,  ransack  it  as  he  might,  he 
could  find  no  record.  This  struck  him  as  exceed- 
ingly singular  ;  because,  he  believed,  he  had  been 
careful  to  preserve  all  the  sketches  of  his  mother 
that  he  had  ever  taken,  even  the  most  primitive  and 
rudimentary  ;  and  how  this  one  could  not  only  have 
got  mislaid,  but  entirely  have  escaped  his  mind, 
besides,  he  was  at  a  complete  loss  to  understand.  So 
bending  forward,  and  gazing  intently  at  it,  he  tried 
his  best  to  recollect. 

Of  what  now  befell,  or  seemed  to  befall,  I  shall  give 
an  account  written  some  two  years  later  by  Elias 
himself,  in  a  letter  to  Christine  : 

"  Gradually — as  is  apt  to  happen,  if  you  fix  your 
eyes  for  any  length  of  time  upon  a  single  spot  in 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  125 

some  small  object — gradually  the  picture  blurred, 
becoming    simply   a    formless  smudge    upon   the 
white  surface  of  the    paper  ;  a  lapse  on  the   part 
of  my  eyesight,  which  I,  absorbed   in  the  effort  I 
was  making  to  remember,  did  not  attempt  to  cor- 
rect, but  which  in  due  time,  as  was  natural,  cor- 
rected   itself  ;  and  again   the    picture    stood    out 
as    distinct    as    before.     Now,    however,  at  once, 
every  other  thought  and  every  other  feeling  were 
swept  away,  clean  out  of  my  head,  by  a  sensation 
— I  shall  not  be  able  to  define  it  ;  you  will  easily 
conceive  it ;  a  sensation  half  of  amazement,  half 
of  terror  ;  for,  without  having  changed  in  size,  the 
face  seemed  to  have  changed  totally  in  quality  ;  it 
seemed  to  have  ceased   to  be  a  face  drawn  with 
black  lead  upon  paper,  and  to  have  become  a  face 
in  veritable  flesh  and  blood.     The  hair  had  appar- 
ently become  hair.     There  was  color  in  the  cheeks. 
And  the  eyes  were  liquid,  living  eyes.     They — the 
eyes — were  what  most  affected  me.     Large,  black, 
mournful,  as  her  eyes  had  been  in  life,  they  looked 
into  my  eyes  with  an  expression — I   can't  describe 
it.     It  was  what  you  would  call  an  expression  of 
intense  agony,  and  of  appeal  ;  as  though  it  were  an 
agony  of  my  causing,  and  one  that  she  appealed  to 
me  to  relieve.     The  lips — bluish  white,  as  her  lips 
were,  toward  the  end  of  her  life — the  lips  seemed 
to  move,  and  kept  moving,  as  if  trying  to  speak, 
but  unable  to  ;  until  at  last  they  succeeded ;  and  I 
could  have  vowed  that  I  heard,  in  her  own  recog- 
nizable voice,  just  a  little  above  a  whisper,  these 


126  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

words  :  '  There  is  no  more  chance  of  its  taking 
place  than  there  is  of  the  sun's  failing  to  rise.  Be- 
ware ! ' — the  words  that  my  uncle  had  spoken  down 
stairs.  I  was  so  much  startled,  so  much  terrified, 
that  I  jumped  up  from  my  chair.  Thereat,  instantly, 
the  illusion  ended.  Again  it  was  only  a  crude  pen- 
cil drawing  upon  the  page  of  my  sketch-book.  I 
can't  tell  how  long  it  had  lasted.  Very  likely  not 
longer  than  two  or  three  seconds,  though  it  seemed 
at  least  as  many  minutes.  I  don't  think  I  had 
breathed  once.  I  don't  think  my  heart  had  given 
a  single  beat.  It  had  literally  paralyzed  me  with 
fear, 

"  But  now  that  it  was  over,  I  fell  back  upon  my 
chair,  and  my  heart  began  to  pound  like  a  hammer 
against  my  side  ;  and  I  sat  there,  panting  and  per- 
spiring, like  a  man  exhausted  by  some  tremendous 
physical  exertion.  I  felt  sick  and  dizzy,  and  had 
a  racking  headache. — Of  course,  it  was  a  mere  op- 
tical delusion  ;  a  mere  hallucination  ;  not  an  actual, 
objective  phenomenon,  not  2i  ghost ;  a  mere  projec- 
tion from  my  own  imagination.  A  long  time  after- 
ward I  talked  with  a  physician  about  it.  The  sub- 
stance of  what  he  said  was  this  :  Consider  the 
steadily  increasing  excitement  under  which  my 
mind  had  been  laboring  for  many  days,  in  view  of 
our  approaching  marriage  ;  consider  the  interview 
that  I  had  had  with  my  uncle,  only  an  hour  or  two 
earlier,  and  the  high  pitch  of  agitation  to  which  it 
had  wrought  me  up  ;  consider  that  it  was  long  past 
my  customary  bedtime,  and  that  my  brain  was  irri- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  127 

tated  by  lack  of  sleep,  for  I  had  not  slept  much  of 
any  the  night  before  ;  consider  that  my  mother  was 
just  then  the  one  person  uppermost  in  my  thoughts, 
having  been  vividly  recalled  to  me  first  by  the  pen- 
cil 1  had  found,  and  then  by  the  drawing  that  I  was 
looking  at ;  consider  finally  that  my  bodily  posture 
— bending  over  till   my  chest  nearly  touched  my 
knees — was  such  as  to  keep  the  blood  pent  up  in 
my  head  ;  and  the  occurrence  becomes  very  easily 
explicable,   especially  so,   as   such    hallucinations, 
when  people  are  excited,  are  not  uncommon  ex- 
periences.    This  is  what  the  medical  man  said.    It 
is  undoubtedly  true  ;  and   something  like  it  I  had 
wit  enough  to  tell  myself  immediately,  at  the  time. 
But  telling  did  no  good.     It  is  one  thing  to  satisfy 
your  judgment ;  another  to  tranquilize  your  feel- 
ings and  hush  your  imagination.     They  choose  to 
accept  the  direct  testimony  of  your  eyes  and   ears, 
rather  than  the  deductions  of  your  common  sense. 
I  knew,  as  I  have  said,  that  my  nerves   had  simply 
played  me  a  trick  ;    but  that  knowledge  did   not 
prevent  me  from  passing  a  most  wretched,  uncom- 
fortable night — the  rest  of  that  night,  till  day-break. 
The  memory  of    the  thing  persisted   in   haunting 
me,  in  spite   of    the  efforts   I   made  to  forget  it. 
Strive  as  I  might,  I  could  not  shake  off  the  fear, 
the  uneasiness,  that  it  had  inspired.     Thinking  of 
it,  even  at  this  distance,  I  still  wince  a  little.     It 
produced  a  very  deep  impression,  and  must  have 
been,  I  believe,  in  large  part  accountable  for,  as  it 
was  of  a  piece  with,  what  happened  next  day — 01:, 


128  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

rather,  the  evening   of   the   same   day,  for  it  was 
now  early  morning." 


XI. 


ELIAS  speaks  of  "  day-break  "  ;  but  it  can  not 
accurately  be  said  that  the  day  broke  at  all 
that  morning.  The  blackness  of  the  night  slowly 
faded  into  a  dismal,  lifeless  drab.  It  rained.  The 
wind  blew  from  the  north-east.  Under  it,  the 
branches  of  the  trees,  across  in  the  park,  swayed 
strenuously  to  and  fro.  The  sparrows,  with  sadly 
bedraggled  plumage,  huddled  together  upon  the 
window-sills,  and  raised  their  voices  in  noisy  dis- 
putation, as  if  thereby  seeking  to  screw  their 
courage  up,  and  not  mind  the  sorry  weather.  The 
milkman's  wagon  came  rattling  down  the  street. 
The  milkman  wore  a  rubber  overcoat.  His  war- 
whoop  sounded  less  spirited,  less  defiant,  than  its 
wont. 

By  and  by  Elias  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
getting  along  toward  seven  o'clock. 

Just  then  somebody  rapped  upon  his  studio  door. 
Elias's  nerves  must  indeed  have  been  in  a  bad  way. 
He  started,  paled,  trembled,  recovered  himself,  and 
called  out,  "  Come  in." 

It  was  the  rabbi. 

"  Good  morning,  Elias,"  the  rabbi  said. 

*'  Good  morning,"  responded  Elias,  with  a  none 
too  hospitable  inflection. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  129 

"  So,  you  haven't  been  abed  ?  You've  been  sit- 
ting up  all  night  ? "  the  rabbi  questioned. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  "  was  Elias's  counter- 
question. 

"  I  looked  for  you  in  your  bedroom,  and  saw 
that  your  bed  had  not  been  slept  in." 

''Oh." 

After  a  pause,  "  What  have  you  been  dojng,  up 
alone  all  night  ? "  the  rabbi  asked. 

"  Lots  of  things.  A  man  on  the  eve  of  his  mar- 
riage has  plenty  to  do." 

The  rabbi  stood  still  for  a  little  while,  glancing 
around  the  room.  Then  he  sat  down.  At  which, 
Elias  rose. 

"•  If  you'll  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  I'll  go  down 
stairs.     I  haven't  taken  my  bath  yet." 

"  Have  you  said  your  prayers  yet  ? "  inquired  the 
rabbi. 

But  Elias  was  already  beyond  ear-shot  in  the 
hall. 

When,  perhaps  a  quarter  hour  later,  Elias, 
emerging  from  his  bath,  entered  his  bedroom, 
he  discovered  the  rabbi  established  there  at  the 
window. 

Wheeling  about,  and  facing  his  nephew,  "You 
didn't  answer  my  question,"  the  rabbi  said. 

"  What  question  ?  " 

"  I  asked  whether  you  had  said  your  prayers  this 
morning." 

•*  Oh." 

"Well,  have  you?" 


130  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

"No." 

"  Perhaps  lately  you  have  got  out  of  the  habit  of 
saying  your  prayers — yes  ? " 

Elias  made  no  reply.  He  appeared  not  to  have 
heard.  He  was  busy  fastening  the  buttons  into  a 
shirt-bosom. 

"I'll  wait  till  you've  finished  dressing,"  said  the 
rabbi. 

He  went  to  the  window,  and  stood  looking  out. 

The  rabbi's  presence  troubled  Elias  exceedingly. 
But,  he  thought,  considering  every  thing,  the  least 
he  could  do  would  be  to  put  up  with  it  as  graciously 
as  possible  and  not  grumble.  "  What  do  you  want 
with  me,  any  how?"  it  was  his  impulse  to  demand. 
But  he  held  his  tongue,  and  proceeded  with  his 
toilet. 

When  at  last  he  had  tied  his  cravat  and  buttoned 
his  coat,  "Are  you  ready  now  to  come  down  stairs 
with  me  ? "  the  rabbi  began. 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  Several  things.  Are  you  ready  ?  Will  you 
come  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  Elias  answered,  and  fol- 
lowed the  old  man  from  the  room. 

To  himself  :  "  I  don't  care  what  he  does  or  says. 
It  may  be  annoying,  but  it  can't  do  any  serious 
harm.  To-day  is  the  last  day  ;  and  I'll  let  him 
him  have  his  own  way  in  every  thing,  no  matter 
how  absurd  and  exasperating  it  may  be.  I'll  keep 
my  temper  and  treat  him  respectfully,  no  matter 
how  hard  he  may  try  me." 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH,  131 

They  had  reached  the  front  hall  of  the  house. 
The  rabbi  put  his  hand  upon  the  knob  of  the  front 
parlor  door, 

"Oh/'  Elias  exclaimed,  drawing  back,  "are  you 
going  in  there  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Calling  to  mind  his  resolution,  Elias  gulped  down 
his  unwillingness,  and  said,  "  Oh,  well ;  all  right." 
But  it  cost  him  an  effort  to  do  so. 

Even  during  his  mother's  life-time,  the  front 
parlor  had  been  but  very  seldom  used.  Since  her 
death,  it  had  not  been  used  at  all.  Indeed,  since 
the  day  of  her  funeral,  now  nearly  three  years  gone 
by,  Elias  had  not  crossed  its  threshold.  The  blinds 
and  windows  were  kept  permanently  closed,  save 
when,  once  a  week,  the  servants  entered  to  sweep 
and  dust. 

Now  the  rabbi  pushed  open  the  door,  and,  step- 
ping aside,  signalled  Elias  to  pass  in.  Elias  obeyed. 
The  rabbi  followed. 

It  was  dark  inside.  Only  a  few  pallid  rays  of 
daylight  leaked  through  at  the  edges  of  the  cur- 
tains. The  air  was  cold  and  at  the  same  time 
oppressive — laden  with  that  stuffy,  musty  odor, 
which  always  pervades  an  uninhabited,  shut-up 
room.  At  first,  Elias  could  scarcely  see  an  arm's- 
length  before  his  face  ;  but,  as  his  eyesight  grad- 
ually accustomed  itself  to  the  obscurity^  he  was 
able  to  make  out  the  forms  of  the  furniture,  and  to 
discern  upon  the  walls  sundry  large  black  patches 
which  he  knew  to  be  pictures. 


132  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH, 

The  rabbi  struck  a  match. 

"  Take  it,"  he  said  to  Elias,  '*  and  light  the  gas  ; 
I'm  not  tall  enough." 

Elias  did  as  he  was  bidden. 

The  gas-burner,  from  disuse,  had  got  clogged 
with  dust.  It  shot  a  long,  slim  tongue  of  flame  up 
into  the  air,  and  gave  off  a  shrill,  continuous  whis- 
tle. Every  now  and  then  the  flame  had  a  convul- 
sion, the  whistle  dropped  a  note  or  two  ;  then  both 
returned  to  their  original  conditions. 

For  a  New  York  dwelling-house,  it  was  a  spa- 
cious room,  this  parlor  ;  say,  in  width  twenty  feet, 
by  forty  in  depth.  The  chairs  and  sofas,  scrupu- 
lously wrapped  in  linen,  were  ranged  along  the 
walls.  Over  the  carpet,  completely  covering  it, 
stretched  a  broad  sheet  of  grayish  crash.  The 
piano  wore  a  rubber  jacket,  and  had  its  legs 
swathed  in  newspapers.  The  books  in  the  book- 
cases— books  of  the  decorative,  rather  than  of  the 
readable  order,  for  the  most  part — were  locked  up 
behind  glass  doors.  The  tall  mirror,  between  the 
windows,  shone  through  a  veil  of  pink  musquito- 
netting.  Supplies  of  the  same  material  had  been 
stretched  across  all  the  pictures. 

In  front  of  one  of  these  pictures — that  which 
hung  above  the  mantel-piece — the  rabbi  now 
paused,  and,  raising  his  arm,  pointed  to  it,  in 
silence. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  gentleman,  full  length, 
life-size,  done  in  oils.  The  gentleman  rested  one 
hand  upon  a  pile  of  ponderous,  calf-bound  volumes 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  133 

— law-books,  or  medical  works,  they  looked  like — 
that  towered  aloft  from  the  floor.  In  his  other 
hand,  he  held  an  unrolled  scroll  of  parchment,  upon 
which  big  black  Hebrew  characters  were  inscribed. 
Of  artistic  value  the  picture  had  little,  or  none  at 
all ;  but  it  had  another  sort  of  value  :  it  was  a  por- 
trait of  Elias's  father. 

The  rabbi  pointed  to  it  in  silence.  Elias  thought 
the  rabbi's  proceeding  a  little  theatrical  ;  but  he 
made  no  comment. 

By  and  by  the  rabbi  lowered  his  arm,  and  faced 
about.  Having  done  which,  he  raised  his  other 
arm,  and  this  time  brought  his  index  finger  to  bear 
upon  a  portrait  of  Elias's  mother. 

Theatrical,  certainly;  disagreeably  so,  too;  Elias 
thought. 

At  this  point  there  befell  an  interruption  which 
had  somewhat  the  effect  of  an  anti-climax.  The 
breakfast-bell  rang. 

"  Well,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  let's  go  to  break- 
fast." 

Elias  turned  off  the  gas.  They  left  the  parlor, 
and  went  down  stairs  to  the  dining-room. 

There,  having  taken  their  places  at  the  table,  the 
rabbi  extracted  a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and 
with  it  covered  his  head.  Elias  did  likewise. 
Whereupon  the  rabbi  chanted  the  usual  grace  be- 
fore meat.  At  its  conclusion,  both  he  and  Elias  re- 
placed their  handkerchiefs  in  their  pockets,  and  the 
maid-servant  brought  the  coffee. 

For  a  while  neither  nephew  nor  uncle  spoke. 


134  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

At  last,  ''  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Ellas  ? " 
the  rabbi  asked. 

"  I  was  thinking,  if  you  wish  to  know,"  Elias  an- 
swered, "  of  my  great  happiness — of  the  fact  that 
to-day  the  lady  whom  I  love  is  to  become  my  wife." 

"  Ah,  so  ?  It  doesn't  seem  to  improve  your  ap- 
petite," returned  the  rabbi.  ''  You're  not  eating 
especially  well." 

He  made  Elias  the  object  of  a  curious,  meditative 
glance  ;  then  pursued  :  **  Don't  misunderstand  me, 
Elias.  It  isn't  at  all  my  aim  to  dissuade  you  from  this 
marriage.  That,  as  I  told  you  last  night,  would  be 
a  work  of  supererogation.  But  I  should  like  to  ask 
you  just  a  single  question.  Suppose  your  mother 
were  still  alive,  would  you  entertain  for  an  instant 
the  idea  of  marrying  a  Christian  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  ?  " 

"  You  don't  know  ? " 

"  Well,  probably  not." 

**  Good.  That  is  what  I  thought.  And  now, 
let  me  ask  you  one  question  more.  Is  it  your  opinion 
that,  simply  because  your  mother  has  died,  you  are 
absolved  from  all  obligations  toward  her,  and  are 
at  liberty  to  act  in  a  way,  which,  if  she  were  still 
with  us,  it  would  break  her  heart  to  have  you  act 
in  ?     Is  that  your  opinion  ?  " 

Elias  did  not  reply.  He  colored  up,  however,  and 
bit  his  lip. 

The  rabbi  waited  a  moment,  then  queried, 
"  Well  ? " 

"  Well,  what  ? " 


THE  YOKE  OF   THE   THORAH  135 

"You  don't  answer." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  answer.  It  isn't  a  fair  ques- 
tion," said  Elias. 

The  rabbi  gave  a  short,  contemptuous  laugh. 

Again  for  a  while  neither  of  them  spoke.  Elias 
was  uncomfortably  conscious  that  the  rabbi's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  his  face.  He  stood  it  as  long  as 
he  could.     Then,  abruptly,  he  got  up. 

"  Please  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  do  up-stairs." 

With  which  he  left  the  room. 

He  went  to  his  studio  and  locked  the  door  be- 
hind him.  He  had  told  the  rabbi  that  he  had  some- 
thing to  do.  But  the  truth  was  that  he  had  noth- 
ing to  do,  except  to  kill  time  as  best  he  could 
until  the  hour  should  arrive  for  him  to  start  for 
Sixty-third  Street.  He  had  arranged  not  to  call 
upon  Christine  at  all  that  day.  He  thought  it  would 
be  more  considerate  to  leave  her  alone  with  her 
father.  Now,  the  da}^  stretched  out  like  an  eter- 
nity before  his  imagination.  Would  it  ever  wear 
away  ? 

It  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  not  be  a  bad  plan 
to  get  some  sleep,  if  he  could  ;  so  he  retired  to  his 
bedroom,  and  threw  himself* all  dressed  upon  his 
bed. 

Pretty  soon  he  heard  a  rap  upon  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I,"  the  rabbi's  voice  responded. 

"  He'll  end  by  driving  me  mad,"  thought  Elias. 
*'  What  do  you  want  ?  "  he  asked  aloud. 


136  THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH. 

"  I  want  to  see  you." 

"Well,  I'm  busy." 

"  I  shan't  interfere  with  your  business." 

"I'm  going  to  sleep." 

"  I  shan't  prevent  you  from  sleeping." 

Elias  said  nothing  further.     The  rabbi  came  in. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  sit  with  you.  It  is  better  that 
I  should  be  on  hand,"  explained  the  rabbi,  and  sat 
down  near  the  window. 

Elias  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  hard  to  sleep. 
But  he  could  not  sleep.  It  is  doubtful  whether,  in 
view  of  his  approaching  wedding,  he  could  have 
slept,  under  the  most  soothing  circumstances. 
Under  the  actual  circumstances,  it  was  like  trying  to 
sleep  while  some  one  is  sticking  pins  into  you. 
Elias  strove  to  be  philosophical.  "  Why  should  I 
allow  his  mere  presence  to  irritate  me  as  it  does  ?  " 
he  asked  himself.  Whatever  the  correct  answer  to 
this  inquiry  may  have  been,  the  fact  remained  that 
the  rabbi's  mere  presence  did  irritate  him  to  an  ex- 
cessive degree.  He  bore  it  for  a  few  minutes  si- 
lently. At  length,  flinging  his  philosophy  over- 
board, he  jumped  up  from  his  bed,  and  announced 
vehemently,  "Well,  I'm  going  out." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  rabbi,  quietly,  "  I'll  go  with  you." 

"Thanks,"  replied  Elias,  "but  I  prefer  to  go 
alone." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  rabbi  ;  "  but  it  is  my  duty." 

"  What's  your  duty  ? ' 

"  It  is  my  duty  not  to  let  you  leave  my  sight  to- 
day." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  137 

At  this  Elias  lost  his  self-control. 

"  In  heaven's  name,"  he  blurted  out,  "  do — do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you're  going  to  stick  to  me 
like  this  all  day  ?  " 

"  I  should  fail  in  my  duty  toward  you,  if  I  did 
not." 

"  Well  then,  do  you — do  you  know  what  you'll 
do  ? "  cried  Elias,  in  a  loud,  infuriated  voice. 

"  No  ;  what  ?  "  questioned  the  rabbi,  composedly. 

"  Good  God  !  You — you'll  drive  me  out  of  my 
senses.  You  make  me  feel  as  though  my  head 
would  split  open.  You — you — "  His  voice  choked 
in  his  throat.     His  face  had  become  burning  red. 

"  Look  out,"  said  the  rabbi.  "■  You'll  burst  a 
blood-vessel,  if  you  carry  on  like  that." 

"  Well,  then,  for  mercy's  sake,  leave  me  alone. 
Go  down  stairs  about  your  business.  Leave  me 
here  to  attend  to  mine." 

The  rabbi  did  not  speak.  He  made  no  move  to 
obey. 

"  Don't  you  hear  ?  "  Elias  cried. 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you.     It  i .  my  duty  to  stay." 

"  God  help  me,  if  you  weren't  an  old  man,  and 
my  uncle,  I — I'd — "  Elias  faltered.  His  clenched 
fists  completed  the  sentence. 

"  Put  me  out?  But  I  am  an  old  man,  and  your 
uncle  ;  and  so  you  won't,  eh  ? "  rejoined  the  rabbi, 
with  maddening  coolness. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,"  said   Elias,  recovering 


138  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THOKAH. 

a  little  his  self-possession.  "  I  ought  not  to  have 
threatened  you.  I  didn't  mean  to.  But  you  don't 
know  how  you  make  me  suffer.  You  don't  know 
what  torture  it  is." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right.  You  needn't  apologize," 
the  rabbi  said. 

"  But  what  I  ask,"  Elias  went  on,  "  I  ask  as  a 
kindness,  please  leave  me  alone." 

"  That,"  returned  the  rabbi,  **  is  a  request  which 
I  am  compelled  to  deny." 

Elias  stood  still  for  an  instant,  as  if  undeterm- 
ined what  to  do.  He  felt  the  blood  rush  angrily 
to  his  brain,  and  then  sink  away,  leaving  a  violent 
ache  behind  it.  "  Well,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  grin 
and  bear  it,  then,"  he  said  by  and  by,  and  dropped 
upon  a  chair. 

After  an  interval  of  silence  Elias  began,  with 
sufficient  coolness,  "  Would  you  mind  telling  me 
why  you  consider  it  your  duty  to  remain  with  me 
all  day  ? " 

"  It  is  my  duty  to  be  on  hand,  to  be  at  your  side, 
when  the  moment  of  your  need  shall  arrive.  It 
may  be  any  moment  now." 

"  Of  my  need  ?     I  do^.  t  understand." 

•*  When  the  Lord  manifests  Himself,"  the  rabbi 
explained. 

"  Oh,"  said  Elias,  and  relapsed  into  silence.  He 
added  presently,  "  I'm  going  down  stairs,  to  get  a 
glass  of  water,"  and  rose. 

"  You'll  come  back  ?  "  questioned  the  rabbi. 

*'  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  139 

But  when  he  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  staircase, 
and  saw  his  hat  hanging  from  the  rack  near  the 
vestibule  door,  a  temptation  presented  itself  which 
was  too  strong  for  flesh  and  blood  to  resist.  He 
caught  his  hat  up,  and  put  it  upon  his  head,  and 
dashed  out  into  the  street.  It  was  raining.  He 
had  no  umbrella.  But  he  did  not  mind.  He 
walked  rapidly,  without  an  objective  point,  with- 
out even  noticing  what  direction  he  followed. 


xn. 


AT  first,  as  might  have  been  expected,  Elias's 
sensation  was  simply  one  of  immense  relief — 
relief  to  have  got  clear  of  the  house,  to  have  es- 
caped the  forced  companionship  of  his  uncle.  But, 
of  course,  the  inherent  elasticity  of  healthy  human 
nature  was  bound  ere  long  to  assert  itself.  There 
was  bound  to  ensue  not  relief  only,  but  reaction. 
A  weight  had  been  lifted  from  off  his  spirits  ;  the)% 
compliant  to  the  law  of  their  being,  rebounded— 
sprang  up  far  above  their  ordinary  level.  From 
unwonted  depression,  his  mood  leaped  to  unwonted 
exaltation.  It  seemed  as  though  a  great  billow  of 
happiness  broke  over  him,  and  sent  a  glow  of 
delicious  warmth  penetrating  to  the  innermost 
fibers  of  his  consciousness.  A  flood  of  jubilant 
thoughts  broke  loose  in  his  brain,  and  swept  away 
the  last  vestige  of  disquiet  that  had  been  lurking 


I40  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

there.  Forgotten  were  tlie  pains  and  fears  of  the 
night  ;  sunken  quite  out  of  mind,  the  exasperation 
and  the  anger  of  the  past  few  hours.  The  love  of 
Christine  burned  hot  in  his  heart.  The  realization 
that  this  very  night  she  w\is  to  become  his  bride, 
his  wife,  radiated  like  a  light  through  his  senses. 
So  intense,  indeed,  was  his  thought  of  her,  that  he 
could  all  but  see  her  in  visible  shape  before  him, 
smiling  upon  him  through  her  bright  brown  eyes, 
offering  him  her  sweet  red  lips  to  kiss.  He  could 
all  but  feel  the  warmth  and  softness  of  her  hand  in 
his,  and  breathe  the  dainty  perfume  which,  flower- 
like, she  shed  upon  the  air  that  circled  round  her. 
His  joy  lent  lightness  to  his  footstep.  If  he  had 
w^orn  the  winged  sandals  of  Mercury,  he  could  not 
have  marched  along  with  greater  buoyancy  or 
speed.  It  sharpened  all  his  faculties  for  pleasure, 
and  deadened  all  his  sensibilities  to  discomfort,  like 
rich,  strong  wine.  The  rain,  beating  through  his 
clothing,  and  wetting  his  skin — that  was  a  pleas- 
ure. The  wind,  blowing  in  his  face,  brisk  and  cold 
— that  was  a  pleasure.  It  was  a  pleasure  to  tread 
the  soppy,  slippery  sidewalk,  a  pleasure  to  gaze 
down  the  long,  dark  vistas  of  the  streets.  The 
atmosphere,  rain-cleansed,  had  a  fresh,  invigora- 
ting smell. 

He  wanted  very  much  to  go  and  see  his  lady- 
love, but  he  debated  with  himself  whether  he  had 
better.  In  the  first  place,  it  seemed  only  right  and 
delicate  not  to  intrude  upon  the  privacy  of  father 
and  daughter  this  last  day.     It  seemed  as  though 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  141 

he  owed  this  much  to  Redwood.  But  then,  too,  as 
she  did  not  expect  him,  he  would  have  to  explain 
the  reasons  for  his  coming  ;  and  he  was  loth  to  tell 
her  the  story  of  what  had  happened  since  their 
leave-taking  of  last  night.  It  would  distress  and 
worry  her  ;  and  would  it  not,  also,  reveal  a  certain 
weakness,  at  least  a  too  great  impressionability,  in 
himself  ?  Besides,  to  descend  to  minor  considera- 
tions, with  garments  dripping  wet,  he  was  in  no  fit 
state  to  present  himself  before  her.  He  would  be 
sure  to  excite  her  apprehension  lest  he  had  caught 
a  cold.  Excellent  arguments  against  yielding  to 
his  inclination,  unquestionably ;  notwithstanding 
which,  however,  and  even  while  his  brain  was  busy 
formulating  them,  his  muscles  of  locomotion,  con- 
trolled by  his  unconscious  will,  were  bearing  him 
steadily  and  rapidly  toward  the  quarter  of  the  city 
in  which  Christine  lived.  And  by  and  by,  with  a 
good  deal  of  surprise,  he  found  that  he  had  arrived 
at  the  corner  of  Eighth  Avenue  and  Sixty-third 
Street,  and  was  within  eye-shot  of  Redwood's 
door. 

Here  he  halted.  The  arguments  against  pro- 
ceeding pressed  upon  him  with  renewed  force.  He 
cast  a  longing  glance  over  at  the  house,  swallowed 
his  desire,  right-about  faced,  and  walked  away. 

A  few  strides  brought  him  to  the  edge  of  Cen- 
tral Park.     He  turned  in. 

The  park,  of  course,  was  deserted.  A  single 
moist  and  melancholy  policeman  kept  guard  at  the 
gate.     His  features  betokened  a  gloomy,  phlegmatic 


142  THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH. 

wonder,  as  Elias,  without  an  umbrella,  passed  him 

by. 

The  air  in  the  park  bore  a  racy,  earthy  odor, 
brought  out  by  the  rain.  The  young  leaves  of  the 
trees,  pale  green,  fluttered  in  bright  contrast  against 
the  background  of  dull  gray  cloud.  The  green- 
sward had  profited  by  its  bath,  and  gleamed  with  a 
silken  luster.  It  was  very  quiet.  The  pattering 
of  the  rain-drops,  the  rustling  of  the  foliage  in  the 
wind,  and  now  and  then  the  note  of  a  venturesome 
bird,  were  the  only  sounds.  Of  town  noises,  there 
were  none.  New  York  might  have  lain  a  hundred 
leagues  away.  All  of  which  Elias,  as  he  trudged 
along,  was  dimly  but  agreeably  aware  of.  It  had 
cost  him  dear  to  give  up  his  wish  to  see  his  sweet- 
heart ;  and  now  he  was  seeking  consolation  among 
these  leafy  pathways,  where  he  and  she  had  so  often 
sauntered  side  by  side,  and  where  every  thing 
vividly  recalled  her.  Ere  a  great  while  he  had 
reached  that  pine-topped  rock  which  had  been 
their  habitual  resting-place,  and  was  to  be — !  He 
climbed  to  the  summit  of  it.  He  had  never  before 
been  here  without  her.  His  heart  throbbed  hard, 
so  strong  and  so  sweet  were  the  memories  that 
thronged  upon  him. 

But,  standing  still,  he  pretty  soon  began  to  real- 
ize that  a  wet  skin  is  not  after  all  an  unmitigated 
luxury.  He  began  to  feel  cold.  It  occurred  to 
him  for  the  first  time  that  he  had  perhaps  been 
imprudent,  that  at  any  rate  he  had  better  go  home 
now,  and  get  into  dry  clothes.     Yet,  if  he  went 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH  M3 

home,  he  would  have  to  meet  the  rabbi  again  ;  and, 
by  the  by,  the  rabbi  doubtless  supposed  that  he 
had  deliberately  deceived  him — had  slipped  out  of 
the  room  on  the  pretext  of  wanting  a  glass  of 
water,  with  the  deliberate  intention  of  not  coming 
back.  But  during  his  outing  he  had  gained  con- 
siderable fortitude  ;  his  repugnance  for  the  notion 
of  the  rabbi's  society  had  abated  a  good  deal  ;  and, 
looking  forward,  he  thought  that  he  should  not 
find  it  half  so  objectionable  as  he  had  done  a  while 
ago.  For  the  matter  of  deception,  the  rabbi  was 
at  liberty  to  believe  whatever  he  chose.  Such  de- 
ception would  have  been  justifiable,  anyhow — would 
have  been  practiced  in  self-defense. 

He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  saw  with  astonish- 
ment that  it  was  three  o'clock.  He  had  taken  no 
note  of  time,  but  he  was  surprised  to  learn  that  so 
much  had  glided  by.  He  would  have  to  go  home, 
any  way,  before  long  now,  to  make  ready  for  the 
evening.  Without  further  delay,  he  turned  his  face 
toward  the  outlet  of  the  park,  and  marched  oif  at  a 
rapid  gait. 

He  let  himself  into  the  house  as  noiselessly  as  he 
could,  mounted  directly  to  his  bedroom,  shot  the 
bolt,  and  at  once  set  about  changing  his  clothes. 
But  in  a  very  few  minutes  there  came  a  tap  at  the 
door.  He  knew  perfectly  well  who  it  was  :  never- 
theless, he  called  out,  "  Who's  there  ?  " 

"  I,"  answered  the  rabbi. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  ? " 

"  I  want  to  see  you.     You  know  what  I  want." 


144  ^^^    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH. 

"  Well,  I  can't  let  you  in  just  now.  I'm  un- 
dressed." 

'*  That  makes  no  difference.  I  sha'n't  mind 
that." 

"  Oh,  but  /should  mind  it." 

The  rabbi  remained  silent  for  a  moment  ;  then, 
"  Do  you  think  it  was  exactly  honorable,  the  way 
you  acted  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  What  way  ? " 

**  Telling  me  an  untruth,  and  then  stealing  out 
of  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  an  untruth.  It  was 
an  inspiration,  after  I  had  left  you.  Any  how,  all's 
fair  in  love  and  war,  you  know." 

Elias  chuckled  softly  to  himself. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?"  the  rabbi  asked. 

**  I'm  not  laughing." 

"  Well,  nothing  has  happened  ?  You're  all 
right  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  I  haven't  been  struck  by  lightning 
yet." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  Elias.     It's  blasphemous." 

Elias  made  no  answer. 

Presently  the  rabbi  said,  "  Well,  aren't  you  ready 
to  let  me  in  yet  ?  " 

"No." 

'*  How  soon  will  you  be  ?  " 

''  I  don't  know." 

"  Five  minutes  ?  " 

"  No,  I  guess  not.     I  guess  not  at  all." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  MS 

"  Because,  frankly,  your  presence  is  irksome  to 
me." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  can't  analyze  it.  You  make  me  feel 
uncomfortable.  Put  yourself  in  my  place,  and 
you'll  understand." 

"  You're  mistaken,  Elias.  It  isn't  I  that  makes 
you  feel  uncomfortable." 

"  Who,  then?" 

"  Nobody.     It's  your  guilty  conscience." 

"  So  ?  My  guilty  conscience  doesn't  trouble  mc 
much,  when  you're  not  around." 

"  How  about  last  night  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  Why,  it  kept  you  awake  all  night,  didn't  it  t  " 

"  Oh." 

'=Well,  didn't  it?" 

"  Gammon.  I  was  busy,  making  my  preparations 
for  this  evening." 

"■  Oh,  that  reminds  me.  At  what  time  is  it  your 
intention  to  start  ?  " 

"  Start?." 

"  Yes,  for  the  place  of  the  wedding." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ?  " 

"  So  as  to  be  ready." 

"  Ready  for  what  ?  " 

"  To  start  with  you." 

"  Good  heavens  !  You  don't  mean  to  say  that 
you  expect  to  go  with  me  to  the  wedding  ? " 

"  Certainly." 

"  O,  well,  really,  I  can't  let  you." 


146  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

"  AVhy  not  ?  " 

**  I  can't  let  3'ou  make  a  scene  there.  You  may 
plague  /?ie  as  much  as  you  like.  But  I  can't  have 
any  disturbance  at  the  wedding." 

"  You  ought  to  know  me  well  enough  not  to  fear 
my  making  a  disturbance.  I'm  not  in  the  habit  of 
making  disturbances." 

"  Well,  then,  what  do  you  want  to  go  for  ?  " 

"  Simply  to  be  there." 

*'  But  I  thought — I  thought  my  own  going  was 
to  be  prevented." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  never  said  that.  You  may  be  suffered 
to  go.  It  is  the  performance  of  the  wedding  cere- 
mony that  will  be  prevented." 

''  Oh,  then  you  think  the  '  moment  of  my  need  * 
has  been  put  off  a  little  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  say,  you  may  be  permitted  to 
continue  straight  up  to  the  brink,  but  before  the 
marriage  is  consummated,  the  Lord  will  inter- 
fere." 

"  His  confidence  is  weakening,"  thought  Elias, 
and  held  his  tongue. 

"  Well  ?  "  questioned  the  rabbi. 

"  Well,  what?" 

"  At  what  hour  shall  I  be  ready  ? " 

"  You  promise  not  to  make  a  row  ?  " 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid." 

"  And  to  conduct  yourself  exactly  as  though  you 
were  an  ordinary  guest  ?  " 

'*  I  generally  conduct  myself  as  a  gentleman, 
don't  I  ?  " 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  I47 

"  Well,  then,  I  mean  to  leave  here  at  a  quarter 
before  eight." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  rabbi  ;  "  and  now  it  is  a 
quarter  after  four.  Since  you  refuse  to  let  me  in, 
I'll  go  and  sit  in  my  own  bedroom.  I  might 
catch  cold,  standing  here  in  the  hall.  Call  me  if 
any  thing  should  happen." 

For  the  sake  of  killing  time,  Elias  dawdled  as 
long  as  he  could  over  his  toilet.  When,  at  length, 
it  was  completed,  he  picked  up  a  book,  and,  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  window,  tried  to  read.  But  it 
was  no  use.  His  mind  wandered.  The  thought 
of  his  wedding  was  the  only  thought  that  he  could 
keep  fast  hold  of.  He  was  very  much  excited  and 
very  impatient.  He  wished  heartily  that  it  was 
over  and  done  with,  and  thus  all  room  for  doubt  or 
accident  excluded.  He  wondered  how  he  would 
manage  to  survive  the  remaining  hours.  What  a 
pity  that  he  had  not  left  something  till  the  last 
moment  to  be  attended  to.  Then  he  would  have 
had  an  occupation.  But,  unfortunately,  every 
arrangement  was  complete.  He  had  packed  all 
his  trunks,  and  sent  them  off  to  the  steamer.  A 
shawl-strap  and  a  hand-satchel  were  the  only  lug- 
gage not  thus  disposed  of ;  and  these,  also,  were 
packed  and  locked.  Well,  he  must  busy  himself 
with  something  ;  and  so  by  and  by  he  proceeded 
slowly  to  unpack  the  hand-satchel,  and  thereupon 
forthwith  to  pack  it  over  again.  He  had  about 
finished,  when  the  dinner-bell  rang.  That  meant 
half-past  six. 


148  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

The  dinner-bell  sounded  musically  in  Elias's  ears, 
partly  because  he  thought  that  he  was  hungry, 
chiefly  because  the  process  of  dining  would  con- 
sume a  certain  quantity  of  time. 

He  found  the  rabbi  already  established  at  the 
table.  He  observed,  with  a  half  contemptuous, 
half  annoyed,  sense  of  its  childishness,  that  the 
rabbi  had  discarded  his  customary  white  cravat  for 
a  black  one — a  thing  which  he  never  did  except 
when  he  had  a  funeral  to  conduct. 

The  two  men  covered  their  heads.  The  rabbi 
intoned  his  grace.  The  servant  brought  in  the  eat- 
ables. Elias  asked  her  to  go  out  to  the  livery-stable, 
and  order  a  carriage  for  a  quarter  to  eight.  She 
had  been  employed  iii  the  Bacharach  household  as 
long  as  Elias  could  remember,  this  servant,  Maggie. 
Now  she  felt  entitled  to  display  a  little  friendly 
curiosity. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  she,  "  for  asking  ;  but  is  it 
true,  Mr.  Elias,  that  you're  going  to  get  married 
to-night  ?  " 

Elias  was  about  to  answer,  when  the  rabbi 
interposed  : 

"  Who  has  been  putting  such  a  notion  into  your 
head  ?  Of  course,  it  isn't  true.  When  Mr.  Elias 
gets  married,  you  shall  be  invited  to  the  wedding, 
Maggie." 

Elias  did  not  care  to  join  his  uncle  in  debate. 
Maggie  went  off  upon  her  errand.  They  dined 
without  speaking.  The  gentle  clink  of  their  knives 
and  forks  sounded  painfully  distinct. 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  149 

Elias's  excitement,  his  nervousness,  his  impa- 
tience, were  constantly  becoming  more  intense. 
At  every  unexpected  noise,  no  matter  how  slight 
or  how  commonplace,  at  every  footstep  in  the  hall, 
at  every  clatter  of  dishes  in  the  kitchen,  at  every 
gust  of  wind  upon  the  window-pane,  he  started  and 
caught  his  breath.  He  felt  his  heart  alternately 
growing  hot  and  cold.  Now  it  would  leap  with 
joy,  at  the  thought  of  what  was  so  near  at  hand  ; 
now  it  would  cease  beating,  in  spasmodic  terror  of 
some  unknown  calamity.  It  began  to  gallop  tem- 
pestuously, when  at  last  Elias  heard  the  carriage 
rattle  up,  and  stop  before  the  house.  "  Oh,"  he 
told  himself,  "  it's  only  the  way  any  man  in  my 
place  would  feel.  One  doesn't  get  married  every 
day  in  the  week."  His  cheeks  burned.  His  mouth 
was  dry  and  feverish.  His  hands  gave  off  a  cold 
perspiration,  and  they  shook  like  those  of  an  old 
man. 

The  rabbi  entered  the  carriage.  Elias,  having 
instructed  the  coachman  where  to  drive,  followed. 
The  carriage  moved  off. 

"  At  a  church  ? "  questioned  the  rabbi. 

"  No  ;  at  their  house,"  replied  Elias. 

"  A  large  affair  ?     Many  guests  ?  " 

*'  Very  few.  Perhaps  twenty-five  or  thirty.  Their 
friends." 

"  That's  good.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  have  a 
crowd." 

After  which  both  held  their  peace.  Elias  leaned 
back  in  his  seat,  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 


150  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

Now,  not  only  his  hands,  but  all  his  limbs,  were 
trembling,  quaking,  as  if  he  had  the  ague.  He 
gritted  his  teeth  firmly  together  to  keep  them  from 
chattermg.  In  his  breast  he  was  conscious  of  a 
vague,  palpitating  pain,  very  like  extreme  fear.  He 
tried  hard,  but  vainly,  to  exercise  his  will  and  his 
intelligence.  In  his  brain  all  was  bewilderment  and 
confusion.  Mechanically,  he  repeated  to  himself, 
"  It  is  as  every  man  in  my  place  would  feel."  But 
he  did  not  believe  it.  His  condition  mystified  him 
completely.  He  was  suffering  miserably.  One 
thought  alone  rode  clear  above  the  mental  hurri- 
cane :  ''Thank  God,  it  will  soon  be  over."  Mean- 
while, in  a  dull,  sick  wa)?-,  he  was  looking  out  of  the 
window,  and  observing  the  progress  of  the  carriage. 
Onward,  onward,  they  were  jolting,  through  the 
wet  streets,  where  the  sidewalks,  like  inky  mirrors, 
gave  back  distorted  images  of  the  street  lamps  ; 
past  blazing  shop-fronts,  past  jingling  horse-cars, 
past  solitary  foot-passengers  ;  ever  nearer  and 
nearer  to  their  destination  ;  and  that  sinking  in  his 
breast,  and  that  uproar  in  his  brain,  ever  growing 
more  marked,  more  painful,  more  perplexing.  A 
happy  bridegroom  driving  to  his  wedding  !  More 
like  a  doomed  criminal  driving  to  the  place  of  ex- 
piation. Presently  they  reached  the  great  circle  at 
the  junction  of  Fifty-ninth  Street  and  Eighth 
Avenue.  Elias  drew  a  long,  deep  breath,  clenched 
his  fists,  straightened  up,  by  a  huge  effort  mustered 
a  little  self-possession,and  announced  faintly,"  Well, 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  151 

we're  almost  there."  To  his  bewildered  senses,  his 
own  voice  sounded  unfamiliar  and  far  away. 

A  few  seconds  of  acute  suspense,  and  the  car- 
riage came  to  a  stand-still  in  front  of  Redwood's 
door. 

"  Well,"  began  the  rabbi,  as  Elias  made  no  move- 
ment, "  is  this  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  sha'n't  we  get  out  ? " 

"  Yes,  of  course.  But  first,  let  me  tell  you.  You 
go  right  into  the  parlor — at  the  left  as  we  enter. 
I'll  go  straight  up-stairs.  For  God's  sake,  remember 
your  promise.  Don't — don't  make  any  disturbance 
here." 

They  got  out  of  the  carriage,  and  climbed  the 
stoop,  over  which  an  awning  had  been  erected. 
The  door  was  opened  by  a  negro,  in  dress-suit  and 
white  gloves.  The  rabbi,  pursuant  to  Elias's  re- 
quest, turned  at  once  into  the  parlor,  where  already 
a  half-dozen  early  arrivals  were  assembled.  Elias, 
bearing  the  rabbi's  hat  and  overcoat,  hurried  up  the 
staircase  to  the  room  that  had  been  set  apart  for 
him.  There,  having  slammed  the  door  behind  him, 
he  flung  himself  into  an  easy-chair,  took  his  head 
between  his  hands,  closed  his  eyes,  and  strove  with 
might  and  main  to  summon  a  little  strength,  a  little 
composure, 

"  There  is  no  more  chance  of  its  taking  place, 
than  there  is  of  the  sun's  failing  to  rise  to-morrow 
morning  " — that  phrase  had  begun  again  to  ring 
hideously  in  his  ears. 


152  THE    YOKE  OF   THE   THORAH. 

Pretty  soon  he  became  aware  that  he  was  no 
longer  alone.  Somebody  had  entered  the  room, 
and  was  speaking  to  him.  He  looked  up.  Dazed 
and  dizzy,  as  if  through  a  veil,  he  saw  old  Redwood 
standing  before  him. 

"  Did  you  speak  ?    What  did  you  say?  "  he  asked. 

*'  I  said  how-d'ye-do,"  answered  Redwood.  "  You 
look  sort  of  rattled.     What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  ** 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I'm  very  well,  thank  you.  How 
— where  is  Christine  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  busy  making  her  toilet — she  and  her 
friends.  They've  been  at  it  pretty  much  all  the 
afternoon.  But,  I  say,  brace  up.  Would  you  like 
something  to  drink  ?  " 

"  No.  Much  obliged,  but  I— I'm  all  right. 
Only  a  little  excited,  you  know." 

"  And,  by  the  way,  who  was  that  old  part%  that 
came  in  with  ye — black  and  white  ?  " 

"  Black  and  white  ?  " 

"  Yes — black  hair,  white  face — black  tie,  white 
collar — looks  like  a  parson,  and  like  an  Israelite, 
at  the  same  time." 

"  Oh,  that's  my  uncle — Dr.  Gedaza." 

"  You  don't  say  so  !  So  he's  come  around,  has 
he  ?  Relented,  and  got  reconciled  ?  Well,  I  must 
go  down  stairs,  and  clasp  his  fist." 

*'  No  ;  don't  please.  That  is,  I  wouldn't  if  I 
were  you.     Better  let  him  alone,"  said  Elias. 

"Why,  man  alive,  why  not?  Mustn't  I  do  the 
honors  of  the  house  ?  " 

**  Yes  ;  but  he — he's  sort  of  eccentric.     I  wouldn't 


THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH.  153 

pay  any  attention  to  him.  It  might  get  him  started, 
you  understand." 

"  Oh,  well,  you  know  him,  I  suppose  ;  and  if 
you  say  so,  all  right.  But  it  don't  seem  just  the 
thing  not  to  bid  him  welcome.  You'll  have  to 
excuse  me,  any  how,  now.  The  guests  are  arriving 
right  along,  and  I  must  be  on  deck  to  receive 
'em." 

Old  Redwood  departed.  Elias  felt  rather  better 
— less  feverish  and  excited,  but  somewhat  dull  and 
weak. 

In  a  few  minutes  Redwood  reappeared. 

"  Come,"  he  cried.  "  Chris  is  ready — waiting 
for  ye." 

Elias's  heart  bounding  fiercely,  he  rose,  and 
followed  the  old  man  through  the  hall  into  the 
front  room.  Christine  advanced  to  meet  him,  a 
vision  of  dazzling  whiteness.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  afraid," 
she  whispered,  as  he  folded  her  in  his  arms.  Then, 
after  he  had  released  her,  "  Here,  dear,"  she  said, 
and  plucked  a  rosebud  from  her  bouquet,  and 
pinned  it  into  his  button-hole.  Her  fingers  trem- 
bled.  A  truant  wisp  of  golden  hair  lightly  brushed 
his  cheek. 

"  Now,  children,"  said  old  Redwood,  "  you 
understand  the  programme,  do  ye  ?  I  go  in  first, 
and  stand  up  alongside  the  parson.  You  follow 
about  a  minute  after,  Christine  leaning  on  Elias's 
left  arm.  Now  the  sooner  you're  ready  the  better. 
Shall  I  start  ? " 

"  Yes,"  they  answered. 


154  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    T HO  RAH. 

He  kissed  his  daughter,  wrung  Ehas's  hand,  and 
left  the  room. 

The  clergyman  stood  between  the  front  parlor 
windaws.  At  a  distance  of  two  or  three  yards, 
the  guests  formed  an  irregular  horse-shoe.  There 
were  a  few  young  girls  in  bright  colors,  a  few  young 
men  in  white  waistcoats  and  swallow-tails.  The 
rest  were  elderly  folk,  the  women  in  black  silks, 
the  men  in  black  frock-coats.  A  goodly  quantity 
of  cut  flowers,  distributed  about  the  room,  refreshed 
the  hot,  close  air. 

There  was  a  low  buzz  of  conversation — which, 
however,  abruptly  subsided,  as  the  door  opened, 
and  old  Redwood  marched  gravely  up,  and  took 
his  position  at  the  clergyman's  right  hand. 

The  inevitable  hush  of  expectancy.  All  eyes 
focused  upon  the  door.  Through  which,  next 
instant,  entered  the  bridal  couple,  and  walked 
slowly  forward  to  where  they  were  awaited. 

"  Dearly  beloved,"  solemnly  began  the  minister, 
"  we  are  gathered  together  here  in  the  sight  of 
God,  and  in  the  face  of  this  company,  to  join 
together  this  man  and  this  woman  in  holy  matri- 
mony " — and  continued  to  the  end  of  his  prelimi- 
nary address. 

After  a  brief  pause,  he  proceeded  :  "  Elias,  wilt 
thou  have  this  woman,  Christine,  to  thy  wedded 
wife,  to  live  together  after  God's  ordinance  in  the 
holy  estate  of  matrimony  ?  Wilt  thou  love  her, 
comfort  her,  honor  and  keep  her  in  sickness  and  in 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  155 

health  ;  and,  forsaking  all  others,  keep  thee  only 
unto  her,  so  long  as  ye  both  shall  live  ?  " — and 
again  paused,  waiting  for  Elias  to  respond. 

A  crimson  flush  suffused  Elias's  face,  then,  in  an 
instant,  faded  to  an  intense  waxen  pallor.  A  film, 
a  glassiness,  appeared  to  form  over  the  pupils  of 
his  eyes.  His  lips  parted  and  twisted  convulsively, 
writhing,  as  if  in  a  desperate  struggle  to  shape  the 
expected  words.  Suddenly  he  threw  his  arm  up 
into  the  air  ;  a  stifled,  broken  groan  burst  from  his 
throat ;  he  fell  backward,  head  foremost,  full  length 
upon  the  floor,  and  lay  there  rigid,  lifeless. 

For  a  moment  a  breathless,  startled  stillness 
among  the  people.  Then  a  quick  outbreak  of 
voices,  and  an  eager  pressing  forward  toward  the 
spot  where  Elias  had  fallen. 

Christine  for  a  breathing-space  remained  motion- 
less, aghast.  All  at  once,  "  Oh,  my  God  !  He  is 
dead — dead!  "  she  cried,  an  agonized,  heart-piercing 
cry,  and  sank  upon  her  knees  beside  him,  and  flung 
herself  sobbing  upon  his  breast. 

Parrot-like,  the  guests  caught  up  her  cry,  and 
repeated  it  in  low,  awed  tones  among  themselves  : 

"•  He  is  dead.     He  has  dropped  down  dead." 

The  poor  minister  looked  very  badly  scared,  and 
as  though  he  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  say  or 
to  do  something,  without  knowing  what. 

At  first  old  Redwood  himself  had  started  back, 
completely  staggered.  But  he  very  speedily  re- 
covered his  presence  of  mind. 

"Oh,  no,  he  ain't  dead   either,"  he  called  out. 


156  THE    YOKE   OE   THE    THORAH. 

"  He's  got  a  fit  or  something.  Hey,  Dr.  Whipple^ 
down  there  !  Come  up  here — will  ye  ? — and  see 
what  ye  can  do." 

The  person  thus  appealed  to,  a  tall  old  gentle- 
man, with  iron-gray  hair,  had  gradually  been  elbow- 
ing his  way  to  the  front  ;  and  before  Redwood 
had  fairly  spoken  his  last  word,  was  bending  over 
Elias,  and  gazing  curiously  at  his  face. 

Close  upon  the  doctor's  heels  came  the  rabbi. 
The  rabbi's  countenance  wore  a  strangely  inappro- 
priate smile — one  would  have  said,  a  smile  of  satis- 
faction. 

"Well,  doctor?"  questioned  Redwood. 

"Oh,  doctor,  doctor,"  cried  Christine,  looking 
up  through  her  tears,  "  is — is  he — ? " 

"  No,  no,  my  child,"  answered  the  doctor,  kindly. 
"  He'll  be  as  well  as  ever  in  an  hour  or  two — only 
a  bit  head-achey  and  shaken  up.  There's  no  occa- 
sion for  any  alarm  at  all."  Turning  to  Redwood  : 
"  It's  epilepsy.    Does  he  have  these  attacks  often  ?  " 

"  I'm  blamed  if  I  knew  he  had  them  at  all,"  said 
Redwood.  "How  is  it  about  that?"  he  asked, 
addressing  the  rabbi. 

"  He  has  never  been  troubled  this  way  before," 
the  rabbi  replied. 

"Perhaps  it's  in  his  family?"  questioned  the 
doctor. 

"  Perhaps.  I  don't  know,"  the  rabbi  answered, 
though  he  did  know  perfectly  well  that  Elias's 
father  had  died  in  an  epileptic  fit ;  a  fact,  by  the 
way,  of  which  Elias  himself  was  ignorant. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  157 

"  Brought  on,  then,  by  nervous  excitement,  worry, 
loss  of  sleep,  or  what  not,  I  suppose;  It  will  be 
interesting  to  note  whether  he  ever  has  another," 
the  medical  man  concluded. 

Christine,  upon  receiving  the  doctor's  assurance 
that  her  lover  was  in  no  danger  of  death,  had  begun 
anew  to  sob  upon  his  breast,  more  violently,  if  pos- 
sible, than  at  first. 

The  clergyman  had  retired  to  the  back  parlor, 
and  was  discoursing  of  the  mishap  to  a  bevy  of 
gaping  guests. 

"  He  turned  as  red,  madam,  as  red  as  a  beet," 
the  clergyman  declared,  "  and  then  as  white — as 
white  as  your  handkerchief,  and  frothed  at  the 
mouth.  I  never  saw  a  person  turn  so  white — posi- 
tively livid.  Conceive  my  feelings.  I  was  really 
very  much  pained,  and  very  apprehensive.  I 
thought  certainly  that  it  was  heart-disease,  and  that 
he  was  about  to  breathe  his  last.  I  can't  tell  you 
how  distressing  it  is,  to  have  such  a  thing  occur  in 
the  midst  of  such  a  joyful  occasion.  It  has  given 
my  nerves  a  most  serious  shock." 

His  auditors  murmured  sympathetically. 

"  Well,  doctor,  what's  to  be  done  ?  Can  you 
fetch  him  around  ?  "  Redwood  asked. 

"  Oh,"  the  doctor  said,  "  he'll  come  around 
naturally  in  a  little  while — an  hour  or  two,  at  the 
furthest.  I  think  that  we  had  better  carry  him  to 
another  room,  where  it  will  be  quieter  and  cooler 
and  away  from  the  people." 


ISS  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

"  No,"  put  in  the  rabbi  ;  "  if  you  will  help  me  get 
him  into  the  carriage,  I'll  take  him  home." 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Redwood,  "if  you  do  that 
we'll  have  to  postpone  the  wedding." 

"  Yes,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  concurred  the 
rabbi. 

"  But  then — there'll  be  the  very  deuce  to  pay. 
Here  are  these  guests  assembled,  and  supper  pre- 
pared, and  their  passage  engaged  on  to-morrow's 
steamer,  and  their  trunks  gone  aboard,  by  George, 
and  every  thing  in  apple-pie  order  ;  and  take  it  all 
around,  you  couldn't  make  a  more  awkward  propo- 
sition." 

"  Add  to  which,"  Interposed  the  medical  man, 
"  that  in  his  present  condition,  a  carriage-drive, 
and  the  jolting  up  which  it  would  involve,  are  just 
the  things  that  might  do  him  the  most  injury." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  the  rabbi  said  ;  "  but  being  his 
only  relative  here,  I  feel  myself  responsible  for  him, 
and  must  act  as  my  own  judgment  directs.  I 
shall  thank  you,  therefore,  if  you  will  assist  me  in 
carrying  him  to  our  carriage." 

"  I'll  be  hanged,"  cried  Redwood,  "  if  I  think  it's 
decent  for  you  to  step  in  here,  and  knock  all  our 
plans  into  a  cocked  hat,  like  that.  And,  any  how, 
didn't  you  hear  the  doctor  say  that  a  carriage  drive 
would  hurt  him  ?  " 

"  And  yet,"  volunteered  the  doctor,  "  if  the  gen- 
tleman insists,  Mr.  Redwood,  it  will  be  wiser  to  let 
him  have  his  own  way.  A  dispute,  you  know, 
under  the  circumstances,  is  hardly  desirable." 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH,  159 

*'  I  do  insist.  I  feel  in  duty  bound  to,"  said  the 
rabbi. 

"  Well,  you've  got  a  mighty  queer  sense  of  duty, 
then,"  retorted  Redwood  ;  ''  and  you  can  bet  your 
life  that  when  Elias  comes  to,  he'll  be  as  mad  as 
jingo.  But  if  you  choose  to  take  the  responsibility 
on  your  own  shoulders,  go  ahead." 

When  Christine  saw  that  they  were  about  to  bear 
Elias  from  the  room,  she  demanded  eagerly,  almost 
fiercely,  whither  ?  And  upon  being  informed  that 
the  rabbi  meant  to  carry  him  home,  she  passion- 
ately besought  the  old  man  not  to  do  it  ;  imploring 
him  to  let  her  sweetheart  remain  where  he  was,  at 
least  till  he  should  have  regained  his  senses  ;  and 
pleading  that  until  then  she  could  not  help  fearing 
the  worst. 

"  Oh,  sir — ^X&dJiQ— please  don't  take  him  away 
from  me.  How  shall  I  rest,  until  he  has  come  to, 
and  spoken  to  me  ?  Oh,  I  can't — I  can't  bear  to 
have  you  take  him  away,  like  that.  If  you  would 
only  leave  him  till  he  can  speak  to  me  !  What 
shall  I  do,  all  night  long,  not  knowing  whether  he 
is  sick — or  dead— or  what,  and— and  always  seeing 
him  before  me,  that  way  ?  Oh,  there,  there  !  They 
are  taking  him  away.  Oh,  Elias  !  Oh,  sir  !  Oh, 
God,  God  !     Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

She  might  as  well  have  addressed  her  entreaties 
to  a  stone.  Neither  by  gesture,  nor  by  word  of 
mouth,  nor  by  variation  of  feature,  did  the 
rabbi  signify  that  he  had  even  heard  her  voice,  or 
was  even  aware  of  her  existence.     The  carriage 


l6o     THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

drove  away,  leaving  Christine  in   a  paroxysm   of 
frantic  grief. 

"  Well,"  remarked  old  Redwood  to  Dr.  Whipple, 
"  I've  heard  tell  of  bowels  of  mercy  ;  but  actually, 
that  old  Hebrew  there,  he  must  have  bowels  of 
brass." 


XIII. 


SLOWLY  recovering  his  senses,  the  first  thing 
that  Elias  became  conscious  of,  was  a  racking 
headache.  By  and  by  he  opened  his  eyes,  and 
glanced  around.  Vaguely,  as  if  half  waking,  half 
dreaming,  he  saw  that  he  was  lying  fully  dressed 
upon  his  own  bed  in  his  own  bed-chamber.  The 
gas  was  turned  down  low.  By  fits  and  starts  a  puff 
of  fresh,  cool  air  blew  through  the  open  window, 
making  the  curtain  flap  noisily,  and  the  gas-flame 
flicker.  Nobody  else  was  in  the  room.  Pretty 
soon  he  closed  his  eyes  again,  and  again  for  a  while 
was  aware  only  of  that  desperate  pain  in  the  head. 

But  by  degrees  a  certain  sluggish  perplexity 
began  to  assert  itself,  a  certain  dull  surprise  and 
curiosity. 

"  There  is  something  strange — something  I  don't 
understand.  How  do  I  come  to  be  here  ?  Have 
I  been  asleep  and  dreaming  ?  Or  is  it  true  that  a 
little  while  ago  I  was  somewhere  else  ?  Where  ? 
I   was  doing   something — something   important — 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  i6l 

something  that  somebody  else  was  doing  with  me. 
What  ?  And  then  something  happened.  And — and 
now,  here  I  am,  lying  here  as  though  I  had  just 
waked  out  of  a  sleep,  but  all  dressed,  and  with  such, 
with  stcch  a  headache —    Let  me  think." 

He  tried  hard  to  think  ;  but  in  his  mind  all  was 
impenetrable  darkness,  through  which  his  thought 
groped  at  random,  catching  no  gleam  to  follow  ; 
until  of  a  sudden,  a  swift,  intense  lightning-flash  of 
memory  ;  and  in  an  instant  of  supreme  horror — 
with  a  mental  recoil  that  communicated  itself  to 
his  body,  and  made  it  start  convulsively — he  beheld 
what  he  supposed  to  be  the  appalling  truth.  Upon 
that  lightning-flash,  succeeded  a  very  thunder- 
storm confusion  in  his  brain. 

"  Oh,  God  !  "  he  cried  ;  and  again  and  again, 
''Oh,  God!" 

Just  what  was  it  that  he  remembered  ? 

"  I  remembered,"  says  he,  in  another  part  of  that 
letter  from  which  an  excerpt  was  printed  in  Chap- 
ter X.,  "  I  remembered  every  thing  down  to  the 
moment  of  my  falling,  with  unaccustomed  vivid- 
ness and  detail.  I  remembered  our  entering  the 
parlor — you  trembling  upon  my  arm  ! — and  run- 
ning the  gauntlet  of  the  guests,  and  coming  to  a 
stand-still  before  the  clergyman.  I  remembered 
the  address  that  he  had  made  ;  and  how  you  had 
listened,  with  downcast  eyes  and  blushing  cheeks  ; 
and  how  I  had — well,  scarcely  listened — but  waited 
till  he  should  finish,  with  eyes  fastened  upon 
your  face,  and  heart  beating  hard  for  happiness. 


1 62  7^ HE    YOKE   OF  THE    riJORAII. 

I  remembered  his  asking,  '  Wilt  thou  take  this 
woman,  Christine,  to  thy  wedded  wife  ? '  and  the 
glow  of  joy  and  pride  and  triumph,  with  which  I 
prepared  to  answer.  I  remembered  that  then,  just 
as  I  was  opening  my  lips  to  speak,  it  seemed  as 
though  suddenly  a  dazzling  disk  of  light  rose  be- 
fore my  eyes,  changing  color  in  rapid  pulsations 
from  white  through  yellow  to  scarlet  ;  a  sudden, 
tingling  pain,  like  a  powerful  electric  current,  start- 
ing in  the  back  of  my  head,  shot  through  my  body  ; 
a  hard,  sharp  lump  stuck  in  my  throat ;  I  felt  that 
I  was  losing  my  ability  to  stand  upright.  I  tried 
with  might  and  main  to  keep  my  feet,  and  to  speak 
the  two  necessary  words.  But  I  could  not.  My 
limbs  contracted  spasmodically.  I  heard  a  sharp 
explosion,  like  the  report  of  a  pistol,  which  sounded 
and  felt  as  though  somehow  it  came  from  within 
my  own  head.  I  cried  out.  I  believed  that  I  was 
surely  dying.  There  was  a  second  of  immense 
agony — fear  of  death.  I  fell.  Up  to  that  point,  I 
remembered  every  thing  perfectly.  But  at  that 
point,  my  memory  broke  short  off." 

And  remembering  these  things  in  this  way,  what 
did  he  conclude  ?  He  jumped  to  a  conclusion 
which  was  most  unwarrantable  and  most  deplora- 
able,  but  which,  considering  all  the  circumstances, 
considering  the  fact  that  he  was  a  Jew,  born  a  Jew, 
bred  a  Jew,  and  the  fact  that  for  countless  genera- 
tions his  ancestors  upon  every  side  had  been  Jews 
of  the  Jews,  can  scarcely  be  regarded  as  unnatural. 
He  concluded  that  what  the  rabbi  had  prophesied 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  163 

had  come  to  pass.  He  concluded  that  the  God  of 
Israel  had  indeed  interfered. 

The  wild,  black  chaos,  into  which  this  conclusion 
hurled  all  his  faculties,  all  his  ideas,  all  his  emo- 
tions, who  shall  describe  ?  Was  it  not  unspeakable 
even  to  himself  ?  With  horror-struck  soul,  the 
horror  quivering  through  every  atom  and  fiber  of 
his  being,  he  could  only  lie  there  upon  his  bed, 
shuddering,  and  moaning  out,  "  Oh,  God  !  oh,  God  ! 
oh,  God  !  " 

In  wonder-tales  and  mystical  romances,  we  are 
accustomed  to  see  the  supernatural  dealt  with  com- 
posedly enough.  Surprise,  amazement  even,  it  may 
inspire  in  the  fictitious  personages  confronted  b}'' 
it.  But  when,  outside  of  literature,  in  what  we  call 
real  life,  a  man  of  ordinary  sensitiveness  persuades 
himself  that  he  has  felt  the  contact  of  that  awful, 
questionable  Something  which  lies  beyond  the 
limits  of  common  experience,  his  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing does  not  stop  at  amazement  or  surprise.  All 
his  theories  and  principles  of  life,  tacit,  uncon- 
scious perhaps,  though  many  of  them  may  be,  are 
shaken  from  their  foundations,  disorganized,  thrown 
into  confusion  ;  and  his  predominant  sensation,  we 
may  be  sure,  is  one  of  blood-curdling,  panic  hor- 
ror. Such,  at  least,  was  the  truth  with  Elias.  His 
heart  seemed  to  have  frozen  in  his  bosom  ;  and  he 
was  sick  with  fear  from  head  to  foot. 

Presently — how  long  after  his  recovery,  he  could 
not  have  told — he  felt  the  touch  of  a  cool  hand 
upon  his  forehead,  and  heard  the  voice  of  his  uncle 


164  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH 

low  and  gentle,  say,  "  Elias,  my  poor  boy,  are  you 
suffering  ?     Are  you  in  pain  ?  " 

He  looked  up  into  his  uncle's  face. 

"  Oh,  thank  God  !  "  he  cried.  "  Thank  God, 
that  you  have  come  !  Stay  with  me.  Turn  up  the 
gas.  I  want  light — plenty  of  light.  Turn  it  up 
full  head.  There — that's  right.  Now,  sit  down — 
here — near  me.  Don't  leave  me  alone.  For  God's 
sake,  don't  leave  me  alone.  Oh,  it  is  good,  so  good, 
to  have  somebody  with  me.  It  was  horrible  to  be 
all  alone." 

The  rabbi  drew  a  chair  up  to  Elias's  bedside, 
and  seated  himself  there. 

*'  If  you  could  go  to  sleep,  Elias,"  he  said,  "  it 
would  be  the  best  thing  for  you." 

"  If  I  could  go  to  sleep  !  "  Elias  laughed  a  harsh, 
unmirthful  laugh.  "  If  I  could  go  to  sleep  !  That's 
good  !  "  Then,  loudly,  passionately  :  "  How  shall 
I  ever  go  to  sleep  again  ?  Are  you  crazy,  to  talk 
to  me  of  sleep  !  Don't  you  know  what  has  hap- 
pened ?  Oh,  my  God,  my  God  !  And  he  talks  to 
me  of  sleep  !  Sleep  !  Man  alive,  how — how  shall 
I  ever  do  any  thing  in  all  my  life  again,  but — but — 
Oh  !  "  His  voice  broke  into  an  inarticulate  groan. 
He  had  started  up,  leaning  on  his  elbow.  Now  he 
fell  back  flat. 

"  You  are  very  much  excited,"  said  the  rabbi. 
"  You  must  try  to  calm  yourself.  Is  the  pain  very 
great  ? " 

"  Oh,  the  pain — the  pain  is  nothing.  I  have  a 
headache,  yes.     But  that  is  nothing.     I  wish  it  was 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  165 

ten  times  worse.  I  like  the  pain.  If  it  were  worse, 
then  I  might — I  might  forget  the  fearful,  awful — 
oh,  I  can't  express  it.  Put  yourself  in  my  place. 
If  it  had  happened  to  you,  how  do  you  think  you 
would  feel  ?  Oh,  it's  very  easy  for  you  to  sit  there 
comfortably,  and  talk  to  me  about  going  to  sleep." 
"  If  it  had  happened  to  me,  Elias,  1  should  re- 
joice in  it,"  the  rabbi  answered  ;  and  then,  as  Elias 
made  no  retort,  went  quietly,  gravely,  on  :  ''  In- 
stead of  agitating  and  terrifying  you,  Elias,  the 
knowledge  that  you  have  gained  of  how  close  the 
relations  are  between  the  Lord  our  God  and  His 
chosen  people,  ought  to  inspire  you  with  a  deep, 
serene  joy,  with  a  feeling  of  infinite  gratitude,  and 
of  perfect  confidence.  It  should  rejoice  you,  to 
know  that  the  Lord  is  your  constant,  steadfast  com- 
panion, that  He  follows  your  every  footstep  with  the 
personal  solicitude  of  a  father.  Awful,  yes  ;  but 
grand,  beautiful,  inspiring,  and  of  unspeakable 
comfort  amid  the  trials  and  perils  of  the  world. 
Think,  Elias,  and  try  to  appreciate,  how  great  the 
Lord's  love  for  you  has  been  shown  to  be — His  love 
and  His  mercy.  You — were  you  not  purposing  the 
commission  of  the  most  deadly  of  sins  ?  A  sin 
which  would  have  pursued  you  with  unceasing  pen- 
alties to  your  grave,  and  for  which  not  you  alone, 
but  your  children,  and  your  children's  children, 
would  have  had  to  suffer  ?  And  in  His  abundant 
love,  what  did  the  Lord  do  ?  He  suffered  you  to 
persist  up  to  the  very  brink  of  the  precipice,  and  to 
gaze  down  into  the  abyss  of  iniquity  ;  but  before 


i66  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

you  had  taken  the  final,  fatal  step,  and  fallen,  Ic  ! 
He  stretched  out  His  arm  ;  He  saved  you  from  de- 
struction ;  and,  like  a  forgiving  parent.  He  brought 
you  back  to  His  bosom.  Isn't  what  I  say  true, 
Elias?" 

The  rabbi  paused  ;  but  Elias  remained  silent. 

"  Answer  m.e,  Elias.     Isn't  it  true  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  it's  true.  Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  it's 
true.  But  what  difference  does  that  make  ?  You 
— you  may  analyze  it  as  much  as  you  choose.  I 
don't  deny  what  you  say.  I  don't  care  about  that. 
But  if  you  had  been  through  it — if  you  had  been 
through  it —  Good  God  !  You  make  me  mad,  sit- 
ting there,  and  talking  philosophy  to  me." 

"  Not  philosophy — don't  say  philosophy — say  re- 
ligion. It  has  upset  you,  because,  in  spite  of  my 
warning,  you  did  not  expect  it,  and  because  you 
haven't  thought  about  it  sufficiently.  You  haven't 
pierced  to  the  innermost  substance  of  it,  and 
thoroughly  understood  it.  Reflect  upon  it,  in  the 
light  of  what  I  have  said.  Reflect  that  it  has 
simply  exemplified  to  you  the  closeness,  the  care- 
fulness, with  which  the  Lord  our  God  looks  to  your 
welfare.  As  you  walk  among  the  pitfalls  of  life, 
He  holds  your  hand,  and  sustains  you.  He  will 
allow  no  evil  to  beset  you.  How  safe  you  ought  to 
feel  !     What  courage  you  ought  to  take  !  " 

Elias  pondered  the  rabbi's  speech  in  silence.  To 
the  best  of  his  comprehension,  deranged  as  it  was 
by  his  terror,  debauched  by  his  superstition,  its 
truth  seemed  indisputable. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  l6y 

"  And  now,"  the  rabbi  continued,  after  a  brief 
pause,  "  it  is  apparent  that  the  Lord  has  been  your 
guide  from  the  beginning.  You  were  becoming 
indifferent — without  knowing  it,  perhaps — indif- 
ferent to  your  rehgion.  You  had  not  zeal  enough. 
You  dwelt  in  a  Christian  community  ;  and  the 
Christian  atmosphere  was  infecting  you,  was  cor- 
rupting you.  You  were,  so  to  speak,  drifting  away. 
The  Lord  saw  it.  He  wished  to  call  you  back. 
He  wished  to  awaken  your  slumbering  soul,  to 
revive  your  flagging  Judaism,  to  rekindle  your 
ardor,  which  had  burned  down  to  a  tiny  spark. 
Well,  in  His  wisdom,  this  was  the  means  that  He 
devised.  He  caused  you  to  fancy  yourself  attached 
to  a  Christian  woman.  He  allowed  you  to  harden 
yourself  to  the  thought  of  committing  the  extreme 
sin — to  the  thought  of  marrying  her.  Then,  at  the 
last  moment,  He  manifested  Himself.  He  rescued 
you  from  your  danger.  And  thus  He  gave  such 
new  vitality  to  your  faith,  that  there  is  now  no  pos- 
sibility of  its  ever  becoming  faint  again.  Oh,  have 
you  not  reason  in  this  to  praise  the  Lord,  and  to 
thank  Him,  from  the  depths  of  your  spirit  ?  Oh, 
my  son,  son  of  my  sister,  how  signally  He  has 
blessed  you  !  " 

"  It  is  true,"  Elias  answered,  "  the  Lord  has 
shown  me  great  mercy — greater  than  I  deserved. 
I  shall  never  doubt  again.  I  shall  always  be  a  good 
Jew  after  this." 

"  And  as  for  the — the  lave  you  talked  about — " 

"  Oh,  don't  speak  of  it.     It  is  dead,  quite  dead. 


l68  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

The  Lord  has  struck  it  dead  in  my  heart.  It  is  as 
though  it  had  never  been — as  though  I  had  never 
seen  her,  or  known  her." 

*'  I  was  sure  it  would  be." 

"  The  Lord  has  burned  it  out  of  my  heart. 

"  He  has  breathed  upon  your  heart  and  purified  it. 
I  am  glad  you  recognize  it.  I  am  glad,  too,  that 
you  seem  calmer  now,  and  more  like  yourself  again." 

"  Yes,  I  am  more  like  myself.  I  see  that  I  had 
no  reason  for  getting  so  wrought  up.  But — oh,  it 
was  frightful."  Elias  shuddered.  In  a  minute  he 
asked,  "  Can  you  forgive  me  .'* " 

"  Forgive  you  ?     For  what  ?  " 

**  You  know — the  way  I  acted." 

"  It  isn't  a  question  of  forgiveness.  You  didn't 
understand.  I  could  not  have  expected  you  to  act 
otherwise." 

"  You  are  very  generous.  I  was,  as  you  say, 
ignorant.     I  acted  like  a  brute." 

"  You  acted  according  to  your  light — which  was 
dim.  I  understood.  The  Lord  gave  me  to  under- 
stand. When  you  first  came  into  my  study  last 
night,  and  told  me  what  you  meant  to  do,  the  Lord 
gave  me  to  understand.  He  assured  me  that  it 
would  all  come  out  well  in  the  end — that  the  mar- 
riage would  never  take  place.  That  is  why  I  spoke 
as  I  did.  I  felt  perfectly  sure.  I  did  not  fear  for 
an  instant.  But  now,  Elias,  we  must  stop  talking. 
You  must  go  to  bed,  and  sleep." 

"  I  don't  believe  I  shall  be  able  to  sleep  to- 
night.** 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH,  169 

"  Yes,  you  will  ;  for  I  am  going  to  give  you  a 
sleeping  potion." 

The  potion  had  a  speedy  effect.  Elias  buried 
his  face  in  the  pillow,  and  was  soon  sound  asleep. 

**  That  obstreperous  old  man  who  was  to  have 
been  your  father-in-law,  has  called  twice,"  said  the 
rabbi  ;  ''and  he  is  coming  again  at  five  o'clock." 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day. 
Elias  had  just  waked  up.  The  rabbi  was  seated 
upon  the  foot  of  Elias's  bed. 

"  What  did  he  want  ?  "  Elias  asked. 

"  Oh,  he  called  to  inquire  about  you — about  how 
you  were  feeling." 

"  And  you  told  him  ?  " 

"  That  you  were  asleep." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  What  else  ? " 

"  I  didn't  know  but  you  might  have  told  him  of 
my — my  change  of  heart." 

"  No.  I  thought  it  better  that  he  should  hear  of 
that  from  your  own  lips." 

"Why?" 

"  Several  reasons.  Chiefly,  because  then  he  can 
have  no  doubt  about  it.  You  can  make  him  under- 
stand that  it  is  assured  and  irrevocable.  If  I  were  to 
speak  with  him  he  might  doubt  my  word,  or  suspect 
that  I  had  been  influencing  you.  He  seems  to  be 
something  of  a  fire-eater." 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  you  are  right.  But  it  will  be 
very  hard." 


lyo  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH. 

''  It  will,  undoubtedly.  But  there's  no  help  for 
it.  It's  an  unavoidable  nuisance.  Once  over  and 
done  with  it,  you'll  feel  immensely  relieved." 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  Elias,  "  how  completely  my 
affection  for  her  seems  to  have  been  destroyed. 
Here,  a  little  while  ago,  it  was,  and  for  many 
months  had  been,  the  ruling  passion,  the  single  aim 
and  purpose  of  my  life.  I  thought  of  nothing  else, 
felt  nothing  else,  cared  for  nothing  else,  all  day 
long,  every  day.  And  now,  it  seems  to  have  been 
utterly  wiped  out  and  obliterated,  without  even 
leaving  a  trace  behind  it — just  as  you  blow  out  a 
candle,  and  the  flame  vanishes.  I  can  think  of  her 
without  any  emotion  of  any  kind.  If  I  had  never 
known  her,  if  she  had  never  been  more  than  a  pass- 
ing acquaintance,  my  indifference  could  not  be 
greater.     This  is  very  strange,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  No,  Elias,  not  strange  at  all.  You  must 
remember  that  it  is  the  act  of  the  Lord.  As  you 
said  this  morning,  the  Lord  has  struck  your 
passion  dead  in  your  heart.  He  has  purified  your 
heart  with  fire,  and  restored  to  it  the  cleanliness  it 
had  before  this  woman  crossed  your  path,  and 
tempted  you.  The  truth  is,  you  never  really  loved 
her  at  all.  She  exerted  a  certain  baleful  fascina- 
tion over  you — a  fascination  which  the  breath  of 
the  Lord  has  dissipated,  just  as  the  breath  of  the 
morning  dissipates  the  miasms  that  have  gathered 
over  night." 

"  I  suppose — I  suppose  it  will  be  a  heavy  blow 
for  her.     She  loves  me.     She  will  suffer  terribly." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  171 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  think  of  that.  That  isn't 
your  affair.  The  Lord  has  used  her  as  His  instru- 
ment. Now  that  her  usefulness  has  ceased,  the 
Lord  will  dispose  of  her  as  He  deems  wisest." 

"  But  she  will  suffer,  all  the  same.  And  here  is 
what  is  strangest.  It  stands  to  reason — it  is  obvi- 
ous— and  I  know  perfectly  well — that  she  will  suffer. 
And  yet,  I  seem  to  feel  no  pity,  no  sorrow,  no 
sympathy,  for  her — not  any  more  than  as  though 
my  heart  were  a  stone.  My  whole  capacity  for 
feeling  seems  to  have  been  destroyed.  Perhaps  it  is 
so.  Perhaps  it  has  been.  Perhaps  the  Lord — I  don't 
know  how  to  say  just  what  I  mean  ;  but  it  seems  as 
though  I  had  grown  indifferent  to  every  thing." 

"  In  the  main,  that  is  the  result  of  the  shock  you 
have  sustained.  It  will  pass.  But  as  for  her,  the 
Lord  will  not  allow  you  to  feel  for  her.  You  have 
suffered  enough.  Her  turn  has  come.  If  you 
have  no  sympathy  for  her,  it  is  because  she  is 
entitled  to  none.  The  Lord  desires  that  she  shall 
receive  none.  She  is  a  Christian,  a  Goy,  despised 
and  abominated  of  the  Lord.  She  has  served 
her  purpose.  Now  she  must  bear  her  punish- 
ment." 

"  And  yet—" 

"  No,  no,  boy.  Don't  think  about  it.  Don't  let 
your  mind  dwell  upon  it.  You  must  not  think  of 
any  thing  but  of  how  grateful  you  ought  to  be  for 
your  own  escape.  Put  all  your  mind  and  heart 
into  thanksgiving.  Praise  the  Lord  !  It  is  irrever- 
ent for  you  to   question,   to   lament,   the   conse- 


172  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

quences  which  the  Most  High,  in  His  wisdom,  has 
ordained." 

After  an  interim  of  silence,  Elias  said,  "  There 
is  something  in  this  connection  which,  I  think,  I 
ought  to  tell  you.  Night  before  last,  up  in  my 
studio — "  And  he  went  on  to  give  the  rabbi  an 
account  of  the  curious  experience  he  had  had  with 
his  mother's  portrait.  "  I  thought  at  the  time,"  he 
concluded,  "  that  it  was  simply  a  morbid  illusion 
of  my  senses.  But  now  I  am  not  so  sure.  What 
do  you  say  ?    What  is  your  explanation  ? " 

*'  I  do  not  believe  that  the  souls  or  spirits  of  the 
dead  are  ever  permitted  to  manifest  themselves  to 
the  living,"  replied  the  rabbi  ;  "  and  therefore  I  do 
not  for  an  instant  entertain  the  theory  that  it  could 
have  been  a  genuine  apparition  of  your  mother. 
But  neither  do  I  believe  that  it  was  a  mere  trick  of 
your  senses.  I  believe  that  the  Lord,  as  a  warning 
to  you,  caused  you  to  see  what  you  saw — caused 
an  image  of  your  mother's  face  to  rise  before  you. 
I  am  not  surprised.  I  have  known  of  His  causing 
similar  things  to  happen  before." 

"  It  is  wonderful,  it  is  incomprehensible,"  said 
Elias,  "  why  the  Lord  should  take  such  an  intimate 
interest  in  the  welfare  of  a  mere  individual,  like 
me. 

"  You  are  a  Jew.  There  is  not  a  faithful  Jew 
living,  but  is  kept  constantly  in  the  Lord's  eye,  in 
the  Lord's  mind.  The  longer  you  live,  the  more 
perfectly  will  you  realize  the  ineffable  privilege 
you  have  enjoyed  in  being  born  a  Jew." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  173 

At  about  five  o'clock,  surely  enough,  old  Red- 
wood called.  The  maid  ushered  him  into  the 
rabbi's  study,  where  Elias  and  his  uncle  awaited 
him.  He  halted  just  within  the  threshold,  and 
made  a  stiff  bow  to  the  rabbi.  Then  he  advanced 
upon  Elias,  with  extended  hand,  exclaiming,  "  Well, 
Elias,  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  How  are  you  ?  How 
do  you  do  ?  " 

Elias  took  his  hand,  held  it  for  an  instant, 
dropped  it,  and  responded,  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  That  ain't  answering  my  question,"  said  Red- 
wood.    "  I  want  to  know,  how  do  ye  do  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  feel  quite  well,  quite  as  usual,  thank 
you,"  replied  Elias.  "  Won't — won't  you  sit  down  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  will — yes,"  the  old  man  assented, 
and  did  so.  "  Well,"  he  continued,  "  this  has  been 
the  devil's  own  business  all  around,  hasn't  it  ? 
Poor  Chris,  poor  little  Chris — she's  pretty  near  out 
of  her  head.  She's  all  broke  up.  She  is,  for  a 
fact.  She  wanted  to  come  down  here  with  me — 
begged  and  implored  me  to  let  her.  But  I  wouldn't. 
I  didn't  know  how  you  might  be  ;  and,  think  s's 
I,  it  might  just  fret  her  worse  than  ever.  She's 
been  scared  about  to  death.  Poor  little  thing  !  I 
tried  to  comfort  her,  and  cheer  her  up  ;  but  it 
wa'n't  much  use.  A  father  don't  count  for  much, 
now-a-days,  when  a  young  man  is  concerned.  I 
suppose,"  he  wound  up  abruptly,  "  seeing  you  feel 
all  right  again,  you'll  be  up  to  the  house  to-night, 
hey  ?  Then  we  can  settle  on  a  new  day  for  the 
wedding." 


174  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH 

Elias  summoned  his  utmost  courage.  "  N-no  ; 
I  think  not,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  husky  and 
unsteady. 

Redwood  did  not  understand.  "  Hey — what  ? " 
he  queried. 

"  I  say,  no  ;  I  think  I  shall  not  call  this  evening." 

"  No  ?  Why,  why  not  ?  Don't  you — ain't  you 
well  enough  ?  Chris  is  just — I  may  say,  she's  just 
pining  for  a  sight  of  ye.  I  really  think  she'll  get 
sick,  if  this  thing  keeps  on.  If  you're  able  to  leave 
the  house,  I  really  think  you'd  better  come  up. 
She — she's  nearly  cried  her  eyes  out.  I  told  her 
— just  before  I  left — I  told  her  :  '  Now,  look  here, 
Chris,  you  want  to  stop  that  crying.  You  want  to 
dry  your  eyes,  and  bleach  'em,  against  Elias's  com- 
ing,' says  I,  '  for  he  won't  admire  them,  red  like 
that.'  I  said  this,  you  know,  to  sort  of  make  her 
laugh.  But  seriously,  I'm  scared  about  her.  I 
am,  actually.  She  hasn't  tasted  a  mouthful  of  food 
all  day.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  call  in  the  doctor  if 
she  ain't  better  to-morrow.  But  unless  you're  con- 
siderably worse  off  than  you  look,  I  guess  you'd 
better  come  up.  I'll  tell  you  what  you  do — you 
come  up  with  me  now,  and  take  dinner." 

Elias  felt  that  the  old  man  was  making  it  more 
and  more  difficult  for  him  to  say  what  would  have 
to  be  said.  He  clenched  his  fists,  and  gritted  his 
teeth,  and  began  by  a  great  effort  to  force  out  the 
words. 

*'  Mr.  Redwood — there  is  a — a  misunderstand- 
ing.    I  must   set   it   right.     I — I  am  exceedingly 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  I7S 

sorry — to — to  be  compelled  to  tell  you — to  tell 
you  that — "  Here  his  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 
He  paused  for  a  moment,  drew  a  long  breath,  re- 
sumed aloud,  " — that,  owing  to  circumstances 
which  I  can  not  perfectly  explain — because,  in  fact, 
of  our  difference  of  religion — she  being  a  Chris- 
tian, and  I  a  Jew — the — the  engagement — between 
Miss  Redwood  and  myself — will  have  to  be — broken 
off.  This  is  quite  positive.  There  is  no  help  for 
it.  Please — please  believe  it,  without  my  saying 
more.  I  am  very  sorry.  Our  engagement  will 
have  to  be  broken  off." 

He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  the  man  to  whom  he 
had  spoken.  He  looked  at  his  uncle.  But  the 
latter  was  watching  old  Redwood. 

Old  Redwood's  face  was  eloquent.  When  EHas 
had  begun  to  speak,  the  old  man  had  been  smiling 
good-naturedly.  Gradually  his  smile  had  faded  to 
an  expression  of  blank  incomprehension  ;  which,  in 
its  turn,  had  gradually  changed  to  one  of  uttermost, 
indignant  astonishment.  But  now,  this  too  had 
departed,  and  his  features  had  become  set  in  a  new 
smile — a  smile  which  revealed  the  abyssmal  con- 
tempt, the  passionate,  malignant  scorn,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  soul,  far  more  clearly  than  the  strongest 
words  could  have  done.  A  grayish  pallor  had  over- 
spread his  brow.  His  eyes  blazed  upon  Elias, 
Between  his  drawn  lips,  his  teeth  gleamed  sav- 
agely. He  sat  still,  nodding  his  head,  and  smiling 
that  unpropitious  smile. 

For  a  long  while,  painfully  long,  no  one  spoke. 


176  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

Elias,  though  he  dared  not  look,  knew  how  fiercely 
old  Redwood  was  eying  him — felt  the  heat  of  old 
Redwood's  gaze.  His  cheeks  flaming,  his  body  in 
a  tremor,  he  sat  still,  afraid  to  stir.  He  could  hear 
old  Redwood  breathe.  He  could  hear  the  boister- 
ous beating  of  his  own  heart,  in  dread  apprehen- 
sion of  the  brewing  storm.  He  could  hear  the 
regular,  metallic  tick-tack  of  the  rabbi's  clock, 
which  increased  the  stress,  as  it  measured  the  dura- 
tion, of  his  suspense.  The  rabbi,  also,  was  smiling 
now — a  smile  of  genial  satisfaction. 

At  last  old  Redwood  moved.  He  shifted  in  his 
chair.  He  cleared  his  throat.  With  a  single  jerk 
of  his  tall  frame,  he  got  upon  his  feet.  He  stood 
for  a  few  seconds,  silent.  Presently,  "  Well,  Elias 
Bacharach,"  he  said,  in  low,  dry  tones,  vibrant  with 
suppressed  fury,  "  I  understand  that  I  am  to  inform 
my  daughter  from  you,  that,  as  you  have  said,  on 
account  of  your  difference  of  religion,  she  is  to  con- 
sider herself  jilted  and  thrown  over.  I  think  that 
is  the  upshot  of  what  you  have  said." 

"  Say,  rather,  released  from  her  engagement," 
put  in  the  rabbi,  blandly.  "  And  if  you  will  permit 
me,  I  shall  be  happy  to  explain  to  you  the  circum- 
stances which  render  this  step  unavoidable." 

*'  Pardon  me,"  returned  old  Redwood,  with  a 
grand  bow  and  flourish.  "  I  was  not  aware,  sir,  of 
having  addressed  you.  I'm  talking  to  Mr.  Elias 
Bacharach.  And  now,  Elias  Bacharach,  this  is 
what  I've  got  to  say.  I  suppose  you  know  what 
you  air.     I  suppose  you  know  the   names  I  could 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  177 

call  ye,  if  I  had  a  mind  to  demean  myself  to  calling 
names.  You  look  in  the  dictionary,  and  you'll  find 
them  printed  in  black  and  white.  But  I  guess  you 
won't  need  to  look  so  far.  I  guess  it  will  do  just 
as  well  if  you  look  in  your  own  conscience.  You 
know  what  you've  done.  You  know  how  you've 
taken  a  young,  innocent  girl,  and  won  her  heart, 
and  got  it  set  on  you,  so  that  she  don't  think  of 
any  thing  or  any  body  else  ;  and  then  flung  her 
overboard,  and  spoiled  her  life,  and  darkened  her 
whole  youth.  And  you  know  what  honest  people 
think  of  a  man  who's  done  that.  That's  all.  You 
needn't  be  afraid.  You  needn't  sit  there,  shaking. 
I  ain't  going  to  hurt  you.  I  ain't  going  to  touch 
you,  even.  I'll  go  home  now.  I'll  go  home,  and  tell 
the  news  to  Christine.  If  it  kills  her,  you  know  who'll 
have  to  answer  for  her  death."  Thus  far,  the  old  man 
had  spoken  with  great  self-control  ;  but  here,  sud- 
denly, he  forgot  himself. — ''  But,  by  God,"  he  thun- 
dered out,  "  if  it  does  kill  her,  I — I'd  rather  have  it, 
by  God  !  than  have  her  married  to  you,  now  that  I 
know  what  you  are,  you  damn,  miserable,  white- 
livered  Jew  !  " 

With  which,  he  stalked  from  the  room  ;  and 
next  moment  the  street-door  slammed  behind  him. 

"  Well,  now,  Elias,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  now  it's  all 
over  for  good  and  all." 

"Yes,  I  dare  say,"  replied  Elias;  "but  I  feel 
somehow  as  though  it  had  just  begun — as  though 
the  worst  of  it  were  still  to  come." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  "  cried  the  rabbi.  "  You're  mor- 


178  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

bid.     Cheer  up.     Let's  celebrate  your  deliverance 
with  a  bottle  of  wine." 


XIV. 


APPARENTLY  it  did  not  once  occur  to  Elias  to 
seek  a  natural  explanation  for  what  had  hap- 
pened ;  and  even  if  it  had  done  so,  I  don't  believe 
it  would  have  made  much  difference.  But  this,  as 
has  been  said,  in  view  of  all  the  circumstances,  was 
scarcely  strange.  The  supernatural  explanation 
had,  so  to  speak,  captured  his  mind  by  storm. 
With  tremendous  force  and  suddenness,  it  had 
thrust  itself  upon  him  at  a  moment  when  he  was 
suffering  the  exhaustion  and  the  debility  consequent 
upon  a  violent  shock  ;  and,  once  in  possession,  it 
clung  tenaciously,  and  left  no  foothold  for  a  saner 
judgment  to  stand  upon.  Then,  besides,  had  not 
the  rabbi's  menaces  predisposed  him  to  accept  it  ? 
And  finally,  there  were  heredity  and  education  and 
mental  habitude,  which  in  such  matters  must  surely 
count  for  much.  Elias  had  been  fancying  that  his 
inherited  and  sedulously  cultivated  superstition  was 
dead  and  buried.  Love,  like  a  radiant  St.  George, 
had  slain  the  monster.  To  us,  wise  after  the  fact, 
it  is  conceivable  that  it  had  but  slumbered  ;  and 
now  again  was  wide  awake,  breathing  fire  and  ven- 
geance ;  and  had  given  its  quondam  executioner 
such  a  blow  as  might  not  speedily  be  recovered 
from,  if  at  all. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH,  179 

Elias,  at  any  rate,  did  not  doubt.  He  told  him- 
self that  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  committing  a 
mortal  sin,  one  that  would  have  removed  him  for- 
ever beyond  the  pale  of  divine  mercy,  one  that 
would  have  entailed  upon  him,  and  upon  his  seed 
after  him,  infinite  retribution.  He  told  himself  that 
at  the  eleventh  hour  heaven  had  intervened,  and 
saved  him  from  his  own  suicidal  clutch.  He  shud- 
dered at  the  notion  of  the  risk  he  had  run.  He  was 
duly  grateful  for  his  deliverance.  It  had  at  first 
surprised  him  to  find  that  his  love  of  Christine  had 
not  survived.  That  which  had  absorbed  his  life, 
and  shaped  and  directed  his  life,  and  been  to  his 
life  what  the  sunlight  is  to  the  day,  its  vital,  dom- 
inating, distinguishing  principle,  had  vanished 
utterly  out  of  his  life,  had  melted  phantom-like, 
and  left  not  a  shred,  not  a  mark,  not  even  a  gap, 
behind,  to  show  where,  or  of  what  substance,  or  of 
what  form  it  had  been.  It  was  the  extinguishment 
of  a  subtle,  spiritual  flame,  which  departs,  so  far  as 
is  determinable,  nowhither — is  simply  swallowed  up 
and  assimilated  by  the  inane.  Three  days  ago,  he 
had  believed  it  possessed  of  everlasting  vigor  ;  and 
now,  it  was  gone  as  completely  as  the  snows  of  yester- 
year. Death  and  dissolution  had  occurred  simul- 
taneously.— But  his  surprise  was  short-lived.  On 
reflection,  he  agreed  with  the  rabbi,  that  nothing 
else  could  have  been  expected.  He  adopted  the 
rabbi's  metaphor,  and  said  that  the  breath  of  the 
Lord  had  entered  his  heart,  and  cleansed  it.  He 
remembered  how,  once  before,  something  similar 


i8o  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

had  befallen,  in  answer  to  prayer.  But  the  effects 
of  that  had  been  transitory.  The  effects  of  this,  he 
thought,  would  be  permanent.  If  there  were  the 
materials  for  melancholy  here,  Elias  was  callous  to 
their  influence. 

It  seemed,  indeed,  that  not  only  had  his  love 
been  abolished,  but  that  his  entire  emotional  system 
had  sunken  into  a  state  of  apathy,  and  become  unre- 
sponsive and  inactive.  He  knew,  for  example,  per- 
fectly well  how  Christine  would  suffer.  The  light 
of  her  youth  would  be  quenched,  and  its  sweetness 
turned  to  gall  and  wormwood.  The  world,  that  was 
so  fair  in  her  sight,  would  crumble  suddenly  to  a 
wide  waste  of  dust  and  ashes.  An  agony  like  fire 
would  be  kindled  in  her  young  heart,  hopeless 
even  of  hope.  It  might  perhaps,  as  old  Red- 
wood had  said,  it  might  perhaps  kill  her.  But  if 
it  did  not  kill  her,  it  would  do  worse.  She  would 
have  to  live,  and  bear  it.  He  knew  all  this.  He 
could  not  help  knowing  it.  It  was  too  big,  palpable, 
conspicuous,  to  be  ignored.  He  knew  it ;  and 
he  stated  it  clearly^  completely,  circumstantially, 
to  himself.  And  then  he  wondered  at  his  stolidity; 
for  it  woke  not  a  throe  either  of  compunction  or  of 
compassion.  He  said  to  himself,  "  Altogether  aside 
from  the  personal  element,  from  the  fact  that  she 
is  who  she  is,  and  that  I  have  been  her  lover  ; 
altogether  aside,  also,  from  the  fact  that  I,  though 
helpless  and  irresponsible,  am  still  the  occasion  of 
her  unhappiness  ;  and  simply  because  she  is  a 
woman,  a  human  being,  the  knowledge  of  her  over- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  i8i 

whelming  sorrow  and  utter  desolation,  ought  to 
move  me  to  deepest,  keenest  pity."  But  it  did  not. 
It  did  not  move  him  to  a  single  momentary  qualm. 
His  condition  puzzled  and  mystified  him.  He  could 
imagine  no  way  to  account  for  it,  unless  by  again 
following  the  logic  of  the  rabbi,  and  assuming  it  to 
be  the  act  of  God.  That  it  was  merely  the  torpor, 
the  numbness,  naturally  resulting  from  the  fright, 
and  the  immense  physical  and  moral  shock,  he  had 
sustained,  does  not  appear  to  have  suggested  itself 
to  him. 

On  the  morning  after  his  interview  with  old 
Redwood  (on  the  morning,  namely,  of  the  fourth 
of  May,  1883  ;  date  worth  remembering),  Elias  was 
established  at  his  studio-window,  watching  the  play 
of  sunlight  and  shadow  upon  the  foliage  opposite 
in  the  park,  and  introspecting  somewhat  listlessly 
in  the  direction  above  set  forth,  when  there  came 
a  light  tap  upon  his  door  ;  and,  without  turning 
around,  he  called  out,  "  Come  in."  He  heard  the 
door  creak  open.  He  heard  the  visitor  take  two 
or  three  steps  forward  into  the  room.  Then,  before 
he  had  looked  to  see  who  it  was,  he  heard  his  own 
name  pronounced  shyly,  by  a  voice  that  was  but 
too  well-known: 

"  Elias !  " 

Unspeakably  astounded  and  discomfited,  he 
sprang  to  his  feet,  faced  her,  and  stood  dumb. 

At  the  moment  he  was  not  conscious  of  noticing 
especially  her  appearance  ;  but  long  afterward  he  re- 
called it  vividly.     Long  afterward,  the  pale  face. 


1 82  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

the  disordered  golden  hair,,  the  large,  dark,  tearful 
eyes,  the  appealing  attitude — hands  stretched  out 
toward  him,  face  upturned  —  became  of  all  his 
memories  the  strongest,  the  clearest,  the  most 
constant,  the  one  on  which  his  remorse  chiefly 
fed. 

But  now,  he  faced  her  and  stood  dumb,  aware 
only  of  hubbub  in  his  brain,  and  dismay  in  his 
breast. 

She,  manifestly  unprepared  for  this  style  of 
greeting,  started  back.     Her  eyes  filled   with  fear. 

"  Oh  Elias,"  she  faltered,  "  you — you  make  me 
think  that  it  is  true." 

He,  finding  his  voice,  cried  piteously  :  "  Oh, 
why — why  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

And  then  they  were  both  silent. 

At  last  she  began  :  "  I  came — because  I  could 
not  believe — because  my  father  told  me  something 
which  I  knew  was  a  lie.  I  came  to  have  you  tell 
me  that  it  was  a  lie.  Oh,  why  did  he  tell  me 
such  a  cruel  thing?  Why — why  do  you  a:t  like 
this?" 

She  paused,  expecting  him  to  speak.  But  he 
did  not  speak. 

All  at  once  she  went  on  passionately  :  "  Oh,  you 
don't  know  what  he  told  me.  He  must  have  wanted 
to  kill  me.  But  I  knew  it  was  a  lie.  I  told  him  it 
was  a  lie  —  oh,  such  a  shameful,  cruel  lie.  Oh, 
God  !  Here,  this  was  it  :  he  told  me — he  told  me 
that  you — Elias — oh,  no,  no,  no  !  I  can  not  say  it. 
But  yes,  yes — I  will  say  it — I   Jiiust  say   it.     He 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  183 

said  that  you — you  did  not  love  me  any  more.  Oh, 
my  God,  my  God  !  " 

She  had  moved  up  toward  him.  Now  she  fell 
upon  his  breast,  and  sobbed  her  heart  out. 

He  passively  allowed  her  to  remain  there.  What 
to  do  ?  what  to  say  ?  he  asked   himself,  distracted. 

"  Oh,  Elias — my  darling — I — I  knew  it  could  not 
be  true,"  she  was  murmuring  between  her  sobs. 

Thus,  until  her  grief  had  spent  itself — until  she 
had  had  her  cry  out.  By  and  by  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  his,  and  smiling  a  forlorn  little  smile,  asked 
timidly,  ''  You  think  I  am  very  silly  ?  " 

But  her  smile  did  not  last  long.  Suddenly,  it 
changed  to  an  expression  of  utmost  woe  and  terror. 
She  fell  back  a  step  or  two. 

"  Elias  !  "  she  cried,  in  a  sharp,  startled  voice. 
"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  Is — do — you 
can't — mean — that  it  is  true  !  " 

He  felt  that  he  must  speak.  He  must  gather  his 
forces,  and  make  her  understand.  He  was  trying 
to.  He  was  trying  to  find  the  words  he  needed. 
But  before  they  had  come  to  him,  the  door  opened, 
and  the  rabbi  glided  upon  the  scene. 

The  rabbi  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 

*'  Elias,"  he  said,  "this  is  unfortunate.  You 
ought  to  have  called  me." 

Turning  to  Christine  :  *'  You  have  forgotten 
yourself,  madam.  By  what  right  are  you  here  ? 
Did  your  father  send  you  ?  I  shall  be  happy  to 
show  you  the  way  down  stairs." 

He  bowed  in  the  direction  of  the  door. 


l84  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

She  looked  helplessly  from  the  rabbi  to  his 
nephew  ;  but  she  found  little  to  reassure  her  in 
Elias's  face. 

"  Was  there  any  thing  you  had  to  say  to  this 
young  lady,  before  she  goes,  Elias  ? "  the  rabbi 
queried,  in  a  brisk,  business-like  tone. 

"  No,  nothing,"  Elias  began  faintly,  "  nothing, 
except — yes,  except — "  He  broke  off,  and  drew  a 
sharp,  loud  breath  ;  suddenly  he  began  anew  : 
**  Christine,  I  am  powerless.  The  Lord — it  is  the 
Lord's  will.  I — it — what  your  father  told  you — it 
was  the  truth." 

The  words  found  their  own  way  out,  mechani- 
cally. He  could  scarcely  realize  that  he  had 
spoken. 

For  an  instant  she  stood  motionless.  Then  she 
reeled  and  tottered,  as  if  about  to  fall.  Then  she 
recovered  herself.  Slowly,  with  a  dazed,  stunned 
air,  groping  blindly,  she  turned,  and  reached  the 
door,  and  crossed  the  threshold. 

The  rabbi  followed,  shutting  the  door  behind 
him. 

Elias  dropped  into  a  chair.  Bewildered,  agi- 
tated, fagged-out,  undone — he  felt  all  this.  But  he 
felt  not  a  pang  for  her. 

"  If  I  had  thrown  you  down  and  trampled  upon 
you,"  he  wrote,  a  little  less  than  two  years  after- 
ward, "  it  would  not  have  been  so  brutal,  so  cruel  ; 
but  if  I  had  done  it  in  my  sleep,  I  could  not  have 
been  more  insensible  to  your  pain." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE   THORAH.  185 


XV. 


ONE  evening  at  dinner,  about  a  fortnight  later, 
^'  What's  the  matter,  Elias  ?  "  thCrabbi  asked. 
"  You're  not  feeling  sick,  are  you  ?  Or  blue  ?  Or 
worried  about  any  thing  ? " 

"  Why,  no,"  Elias  answered,  "  I  feel  all  right. 
Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  thought  you  were  looking 
a  little  out-of-sorts.  Likely  enough,  it  was  only  an 
idea." 

"  The  truth  is,"  Elias  presently  volunteered, 
"  that,  so  far  from  feeling  blue  or  low-spirited  or 
any  thing  of  that  kind,  I  don't  seem  to  feel  much  of 
any  thing  at  all.  I'm  sort  of  sluggish— dull — dead- 
and-alive.  I'd  give  a  good  deal  for  a  sensation,  an 
excitement.  I've  been  feeling  this  way  pretty  much 
all  the  time  since — for  the  last  two  weeks.  Heavy, 
thick,  as  though  my  blood  had  stopped  circulating. 
I  wish  you'd  stick  a  pin  into  me." 

"  Oh,  you  need  a  little  amusement,  a  little  fun, 
something  to  take  you  out  of  yourself.  That's  all. 
Why  don't  you  go  to  the  theater  ?" 

"  No,  thanks.  I'm  not  fond  of  the  theater. 
Besides,  it's  too  hot." 

*'  Well,  then,  why  don't  you  make  a  call  ? " 

"  A  call !  Pshaw  ;  is  that  your  notion  of  excite- 
ment?" 

"Well,  it's  better  than  sitting  at  home,  and 
moping,  isn't  it? " 


l86  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

"  And,  any  how,  whom  do  I  know  to  call  on  ?  " 
"  Whom  do  you  know  ?  Mercy  upon  me  !  I 
could  name  fifty  people,  whom  you  not  only  know, 
but  to  whom  you  actually  owe  calls.  It's  really 
abominable,  the  way  you  neglect,  and  always  have 
neglected,  your  social  duties.  There's  no  excuse 
for  if.  If — if  you  were  an  old  recluse  like  me,  it 
would  be  different." 

*'  I  don't  see  how.  What  if  you  were  a  young 
recluse,  like  me  ? " 

"  Ah,  but  nobody  has  a  right  to  be  a  young 
recluse.  It  is  only  when  we  get  along  in  years, 
that  we  are  entitled  to  withdraw  from  the  world. 
Besides,^  it's  narrowing,  it's  hardening.  You  need 
contact  with  other  people,  to  broaden  your  mind, 
and  keep  your  sympathies  alive.  If  you  avoid 
society  while  you're  young,  the  milk  of  human  kind- 
ness will  dry  up  in  your  bosom.  You'll  get  cold- 
blooded, selfish,  indifferent."  Which  amiable 
sentiments,  falling  from  the  lips  of  the  rabbi, 
possessed  a  peculiar  interest.  "  Come,"  he  added, 
•'  run  up-stairs,  and  put  on  your  best  suit,  and  go 
make  a  call," 

*'  Again  I  ask,  whom  on  ?  " 

"  On — on  anybody.     I'll  tell  you  whom.     Call  on 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Koch." 

The  pronunciation  of  this  name  has  been  angli- 
cized into  Coach. 

*'  Which  Koch  ?     A.  Hamilton  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not.     Washington  I." 

**  Oh,  heavens  !     I  haven't  called  on  them  these 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  187 

two  years.  I'd  be  afraid  to  show  my  face  inside 
their  door.  They'd  overwhelm  me  with  reproaches." 

"Well,  what  of  that?  You  could  stand  it,  I 
guess.  They're  very  nice  people,  the  Kochs  ;  peo- 
ple whom  it  is  worth  while  to  be  on  good  terms 
with — so  warm-hearted  and  unpretentious,  and  yet 
with  their  hundreds  of  thousands  behind  them. 
There  isn't  a  smarter  business  man  in  New  York 
city  than  Washington  I.  Koch,  nor  a  more  honest, 
nor  a  more  open-handed.  Look  at  that  stained  glass 
window  he  gave  the  congregation.  And  then,  at 
the  same  time,  he's  a  man  of  ideas,  a  well-informed 
man  ;  and  best  of  all,  he's  a  pious  Jew." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Elias ; 
"  I'll  call  on  them,  if  you'll  come  along." 

"  I  !  Nonsense  !  I  called  on  them  last  News 
Year's,  and  shall  call  again  next.  That's  the  most 
that  can  be  expected  of  me." 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  dare  to  go  alone.  If  you'd 
come  along,  to  keep  me  in  countenance,  I'd  go. 
But  alone — no,  never." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  Suddenly  the 
rabbi  said,  "Well,  I  declare,  I'll  do  it.  I'll  do  it, 
just  to  encourage  you.  There  ;  let's  go  up-stairs 
and  dress." 

Pretty  soon  they  left  the  house  and  sauntered 
westward  arm-in-arm.  Elias  wore  the  Prince  Albert 
coat  that  he  had  had  made  to  be  married  in. 

It  was  a  hot  night,  and  it  had  all  the  qualities 
characteristic  of  a  hot  night  in  New  York.  The 
air  was  redolent  of  bursting  ailanthus  buds.  Strains 


i88  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

of  music,  more  or  less  musical,  were  wafted  from 
every  point  of  the  compass — from  behind  open 
windows,  where  people  sang,  or  played  pianos  ; 
from  the  blazing  depths  of  German  concert  saloons, 
where  cracked-voiced  orchestrions  thundered  dis- 
cord ;  from  the  street  corners,  where  itinerant 
bands  halted,  and  blew  themselves  red, in  the  face  ; 
and  from  the  indeterminate  distance,  where  belated 
hand-organs  wailed  with  mechanical  melancholy. 
Third  Avenue,  into  which  thoroughfare  Elias  and 
the  rabbi  presently  turned,  was  thronged  by  many 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women  clad  in 
light  summer  gear,  and  drifting  onward  in  light, 
languid,  summer  fashion.  It  was  intensely  hot  and 
oppressive ;  and  yet,  somehow,  it  was  productive 
of  a  certain  unmistakable  exhilaration.  The  sense 
one  got  of  busy,  teeming  human  life,  was  penetrat- 
ing and  enlivening. 

They  walked  up  to  Eighteenth  Street,  where  they 
took  the  Elevated  Railway.  At  Fifty-ninth  Street 
they  descended,  and  thence  proceeded  to  Lexing- 
ton Avenue.  On  Lexington  Avenue,  just  above 
Sixty-first  Street,  the  Kochs  resided.  Out  on  the 
stoops  of  most  of  the  houses  that  they  passed,  the 
inmates  were  seated,  resting,  gossiping,  trying  to 
cool  off — the  ladies  in  white  dresses,  the  gentlemen 
often  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  Here  and  there,  some 
of  them  were  partaking  of  refreshments ;  beer, 
sandwiches,  or  cheese  that  savored  of  the  Rhine. 
Here  and  there,  some  of  them  had  fallen  asleep. 
Here  and  there,  a  couple  of  young  folks  made  sur- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  189 

reptitious  love,  and,  consumed  by  inner  fires,  forgot 
the  outer  heat.  A  pervasive  odor,  compounded  of 
tobacco  smoke  and  eau-de-cologne,  assailed  the 
nostrils.  What  snatches  of  conversation  could  be 
overheard,  were  either  in  German,  or  in  English 
pronounced  with  a  strong  German  accent. 

They  rang  the  Kochs'  door-bell,  and  were  ush- 
ered by  a  white-capped,  flaxen-haired  Mddchen 
into  the  drawing-room. 

The  drawing-room  was  gorgeously  and  elabo- 
rately over-furnished.  A  bewildering  arabesque, 
in  gold,  vermilion,  and  purple,  decorated  the  ceil- 
ing. A  dark,  pseudo-aesthetic  paper,  bearing  huge 
pink  apricots  embossed  upon  a  ground  of  olive- 
green,  covered  the  walls.  The  gas  fixtures  were  of 
brass,  wrought  into  an  intricate  design,  and  burn- 
ished to  the  highest  possible  brilliancy.  The 
globes  were  alternately  of  ruby  and  emerald  tinted 
glass.  There  were  a  good  many  pictures  ;  two  or 
three  family  portraits  in  charcoal,  and  several  bits 
of  color.  Of  the  latter,  the  one  above  the  mantel- 
piece was  the  largest.  A  blaze  of  crimson  and 
orange,  deep-set  in  a  massive  gilt  frame,  it  proved, 
on  close  inspection,  to  be  a  specimen  of  worsted- 
work  ;  and  represented,  as  a  device  embroidered 
upon  the  margin  testified,  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
playing  before  Solomon.  The  Queen  had  beauti- 
ful gambooge  hair,  and  ultramarine  eyes.  Her 
harp  was  of  ivory,  with  strings  of  silver  ;  her  cos- 
tume, decollete,  of  indigo  velvet,  trimmed  pro- 
fusely with  handsome  gold  lace.     Solomon — it  is  to 


190  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

be  hoped,  for  his  own  sake,  that  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  was  not  arrayed  like  this  flamboyant  effigy  of 
himself.  In  a  robe  of  gold  brocade,  lined  with 
scarlet  satin,  and  bearing  upon  his  brow  a  richly 
bejeweled  crown,  that  must  certainly  have  weighed 
in  the  neighborhood  of  twenty  pounds,  the  saga- 
cious monarch  looked  wretchedly  hot  and  uncom- 
fortable. The  rest  of  this  apartment  was  in  per- 
fect keeping.  The  chairs  were  of  ebony,  uphol- 
stered in  stamped  red  velvet. 

Before  long  Mr.  Koch  came  in.  He  wore  alliga- 
tor-skin slippers,  and  a  jacket  of  pongee  silk. 
Between  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  he  carried  a 
half-smoked  cigar.  He  was  a  short,  thick-set, 
pale-complexioned  man,  of  forty,  or  thereabouts  ; 
inclined  to  baldness  ;  with  clear,  light-gray  eyes, 
and  a  straw-colored  mustache  waxed  in  the  style 
of  the  Second  Empire.  He  looked  very  clean, 
very  alert,  very  good-tempered,  and  yet  as  though 
he  could  become  as  hard  and  as  sharp  as  flint,  if 
occasion  demanded.  He  welcomed  the  rabbi  with 
warm  and  deferential  courtesy.  Then,  turning  to 
Elias,  in  hearty,  jovial,  hail-fellow-well-met  man- 
ner :  "  Well,  ]\Ir.  Bacharach,  how  goes  it  ?  It's  a 
dog's  age  since  we've  seen  you,  and  no  mistake. 
Have  a  cigar  ?  " 

With  one  hand,  he  was  subjecting  Elias's  arm  to 
a  vigorous  pumping.  With  the  other,  he  offered 
him  a  tortoise-shell  cigar-case. 

"  They're  genuine,"  he  remarked.  "  I'll  warrant 
them.     Imported  by  my  brother-in-law  for  his  pri- 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  19^ 

vate  consumption.  Cost  you  a  quarter  apiece 
straight,  if  you  bought  them  in  New  York.  Hoyo 
de  Monterey's y 

Elias  selected  one.  Mr.  Koch  produced  a  silver 
match-box,  extracted  a  wax  match,  scratched  it, 
and  held  it  while  his  guest  got  his  cigar  alight.  ^ 

"  Now,"  said  he,  flirting  the  match  flame  into 
extinction,  "  I'm  going  to  ask  you  gentlemen  to 
step  down  stairs  to  the  basement.  You'll  find  the 
whole  family  down  there,  engaged  in  an  impressive 
ceremony.  They're  bidding  good-night  to  the 
baby,  whom  my  wife  is  about  to  put  to  bed."  ^ 

In  the  basement,  or  dining-room  (which,  in  the 
Koch  establishment,  pursuant  to  a  common  Jewish 
habit,  was  made  to  serve  also  as  a  general  sitting- 
room),  as  many  as  seven  or  eight  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, some  seated,  some  standing,  were  gathered 
around  the  extension-table,  upon  which,  in  the 
approximate  center  of  it,  sprawled  a  fair,  fat,  two- 
year-old  baby.  The  spectators  were  all  smiling 
benevolently  at  him,  addressing  complimentary 
remarks  to  him,  and  exchanging  complimentary 
notes  about  him  among  themselves.  All  the  gentle- 
men were  smoking. 

"  Lester,  was  you  a  good  boy  ? " 

"  Mein  Gott !  He  kroes  bigger  every  day." 

"  Laistair,  was  you  sleeby  ?  " 

"Just    look    at   that    smile!     Ain't  it  perfectly 

grand  ?  " 

♦*  Laistair,  half  you  got  a  kiss  for  grainpa,  before 

you  go  to  bed  ?  " 


192  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

And  SO  forth,  and  so  forth  :  all  of  which  Master 
Lester  acknowledged  with  a  vague  grin,  and  a 
gutteral  goo -goo-goo. 

But  at  the  entrance  of  Mr.  Koch,  flanked  by 
Elias  and  the  rabbi,  the  whole  company  deserted 
Lester,  and  making  a  rush  forward,  surrounded  the 
visitors.  The  rabbi,  every  body  greeted  with  sub- 
dued respect,  as  w^as  due  to  his  sacerdotal  quality. 
But  over  Elias,  they  gushed. 

.  Mrs.  Koch,  a  thin,  wiry  little  woman,  with  a 
prominent  nose  and  a  pleasant  manner,  piped  in 
her  shrill  treble  :  "  Oh,  Meester  Bacharach  !  I 
didn't  naifer  expaict  to  haif  this  honor.  I  ain't 
seen  you  in  this  house  for  two — for  three — years, 
already  :    dot  time  you  called  with  your  mamma." 

Mrs.  Koch's  mother,  Mrs.  Blum,  a  dumpy,  rubi- 
cund old  lady,  with  rather  a  sly,  rollicking  air  about 
her,  held  his  hand,  and  swayed  her  head  like  an 
inverted  pendulum  from  side  to  side,  and  smiled 
incredulously,  and  kept  repeating,  "  Vail,  vail, 
vail  ! " 

Then  came  sprightly  Mr.  Blum,  short,  corpulent, 
and  florid,  like  his  wife  ;  with  a  glossy  bald  pate,  a 
drooping  white  mustache,  and  white  mutton-chop 
whiskers,  which  left  exposed  a  very  red  and  shiny 
double  chin.  "  My  kracious  ?  Was  dot  Elias  Bach- 
arach ?  Du  lieber  Gott !  How  you  haif  krown, 
since  laist  time  you  was  here  !  "  He  held  Elias  off 
at  arm's-length,  and  scrutinized  him  carefully. 
**  Excuse  me,"  he  demanded  all  at  once  ;  "  where 
you  get  dot  coat  mait?    Washington,  come  over 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  193 

here,  and  look  at  Elias  Bacharach's  coat.  Dem 
must  be  Chairman  goots,  hey?"  He  plucked  at  the 
material  of  the  unfortunate  garment  with  his  thumb 
and  forefinger,  and  stroked  it  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  "  Dot's  a  goot  coat,"  he  declared  at  last. 
''What  you  pay  for  it  ?  "  He  lifted  up  one  of  the 
skirts,  and  examined  the  lining.  He  was  a  veritable 
child  of  nature,  this  Mr.  Blum  ;  and  besides,  he 
and  his  son-in-law  constituted  the  firm  of  Blum  & 
Koch,  manufacturers  and  jobbers  of  ready-made 
clothing,  Franklin  Street,  near  Broadway. 

Elias  and  the  rabbi  paid  their  respects  to  the 
baby  ;  after  which,  Mrs.  Koch  picked  him  up  and 
carried  him  off. 

"  Mr.  Bacharach,"  said  Mr.  Koch,  grasping  him 
by  the  elbow,  "  don't  you  know  my  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Sternberg  ? — Guggenheim  &  Sternberg,  whole- 
sale tobacco.  My  sister,  Mrs.  Sternberg  ;  my 
other  sister,  Mrs.  Morgenthau  ;  my  niece,  Miss 
Tillie  Morgenthau  :  Mr.  Bacharach." 

To  each  of  these  persons,  in  turn,  Elias  made 
his  obeisance. 

Mrs.  Morgenthau  was  in  appearance  a  feminine 
duplicate  of  her  brother  ;  short,  thick-set,  smart- 
looking,  and  with  an  air  of  having  lots  of  ^<^ ;  what 
is  called  a  bouncing  woman. 

"  Delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  she 
announced,  in  a  loud,  robust  voice,  and  with 
emphasis,  as  though  she  wanted  it  understood  that 
she  wasn't  fooling,  but  meant  exactly  what  she 
said.     She  ^l.ook  bis  hand,  giving  it  a  virile  grip. 


194  THE    YOKE    OF   THE    T HO  RAH. 

Miss  Tillie  Morgenthau  was  a  young  lady  of 
eighteen  or  twenty,  taller  than  her  mother,  exceed- 
ingly taper  in  the  waist,  and  of  an  exceedingly 
fresh  complexion  ;  decidedly  a  pretty  girl,  with 
plenty  of  waving  black  hair,  a  pair  of  bright  blue 
eyes,  a  shapely  red  mouth,  and  a  generous  provision 
of  tiny  teeth,  regular  and  of  pearly  whiteness. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  Mr.  Bacharach  don't  remember 
me,"  she  said,  pouting  playfully.  She  pronounced 
the  personal  pronoun  /,  like  the  interjection  Ah. 

"Oh,  on  the  contrary,"  protested  Elias,  trying 
hard  to  remember  whether  he  had  ever  seen  her 
before. 

"  Now,  Ah'm  perfectly  sure  you  don't,"  she 
insisted.  **  But  Ah'll  tell  you.  It  was  at  the 
Advance  Club,  winter  before  last.  Mr.  Greenleaf 
introduced  you  to  me — Charley  Greenleaf.  Do 
you  belong  to  the  Advance  ?  " 

No,  Elias  said  ;  he  was  not  a  member  of  any 
club. 

"  Well,  now,"  called  out  Mr.  Koch,  to  the  com- 
pany generally,  "  now  that  the  baby's  gone  to  bed, 
I  propose  that  we  adjourn  to  the  summer-house, 
and  try  to  get  cooled  off." 

An  exodus  at  once  began  ;  and  presently  they 
were  all  established,  a  picturesque,  free-and-easy 
group,  upon  the  stoop.  Elias  found  himself  at 
Miss  Tillie's  side. 

'*  Fearfully  hot,  isn't  it  ?  "  she  observed. 

•*  Very,  indeed,"  agreed  Elias. 

**  It  always  is  hot  over  here  on  Lexington  Ave- 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  IQS 

nue — Jerusalem  Avenue,  I  call  it,  on  account  of 
the  number  of  Jews  that  live  over  here.  Pretty 
good  name  for  it,  don't  you  think  so  ? " 

"  Quite  good,  yes,"  he  assented. 

"  But  over  where  we  live,  it's  much  cooler. 
Have  a  breeze  there  most  all  the  time." 

"  Ah,  where  is  that  ?  " 

"  Beekman  Place — clear  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  river.  Number  57.  Be  happy  to  have  you 
call  on  us  there.  We — mamma  and  I — we  live  with 
my  uncle  and  aunt,  the  Sternbergs.  It's  fear- 
fully out  of  the  way,  but  it's  grand  when  you  get 
there." 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  so,"    Elias  said. 

**  Musical,  Mr.  Bacharach  ? "  she  inquired. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.     I'm  very  fond  of  music." 

''  Sing  ? " 

''  No." 

"Play?" 

"  No,  not  any  more.  I  used  to,  a  little.  But  I 
gave  it  up." 

"  Oh,  my  !  W^hat  a  pity  !  I  think  it's  perfectly 
elegant  for  a  gentleman  to  play,  don't  you  ?  But 
so  few  of  them  do.     I  think  it's  simply  awful." 

"  I  suppose  you  play,  of  course? " 

"  Oh,  I  should  say  so.  Yes,  indeed.  Music's  my 
forte.  I  teach,  too.  Give  lessons  in  Dr.  Meyer's 
conservatory,  and  take  private  pupils." 

"  Won't  you  play  for  us  a  little  to-night,  then  ?  " 

"  Oh,  gracious,  no.  It's  too  hot.  Ah'm  about 
melted,  as  it  is.     Ain't  you  ?  " 


196  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

"  Well,  it  zs  pretty  warm,"  Elias  confessed,  in  & 
reflective  tone. 

At  this  juncture,  the  white-capped  maid-servant 
began  to  circulate  among  the  people,  bearing  a 
large  tray,  upon  which  reposed  a  pitcher,  a  couple 
of  slim  bottles,  and  half  a  score  of  cut-glass 
tumblers. 

"Beer  or  wine,  Mr.  Bacharach?"  cried  Mr. 
Koch,  from  above.  "  Take  your  choice,  and  help 
yourself.     They're  both  gratis." 

Elias  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine  for  Miss  Tillie, 
and  for  himself  a  glass  of  beer. 

"  Have  a  fresh  cigar  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Koch. 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  haven't  finished  this  one," 
returned  Elias,  who  had  allowed  the  fire  of  his 
cigar  to  go  out. 

"  Well,  if  you  ain't  comfortable,  speak  up,  that's 
all,"  his  host  concluded,  and  became  silent. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,  Meester  Bacharach,"  piped 
Mrs.  Koch,  who,  having  disposed  of  Lester,  had 
rejoined  the  company,  "  I  hear  dot  we  half  to  con- 
kratulate  you." 

"  Indeed  ?  What  about  ?  "  inquired  Elias,  un- 
suspiciously. 

"  We  hear  dot  you  was  encaged.     Was  it  true  ?  " 

''  Oh  !  "  he  cried,  taken  aback.  He  colored  up  ; 
but  the  darkness  hid  his  blushes. 

"  Vail  ?  "  pursued  his  good-natured  tormentress. 

"  No — not  at  all — an  entire  mistake,"  he  stam- 
mered. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  197 

*'  Oh,  dot's  too  baid.  Ain't  you  naifer  going  to 
get  married  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  guess  not,"  he  said. 

At  this,  there  was  a  universal  murmur  of  dis- 
approval. 

"  Dot's  just  the  way  with  all  the  young  fellers,now- 
a-days,"  Mr.  Blum  exclaimed.  "  They  don't  none 
of  them  want  to  get  married.  It's  simply  fearful ; 
hey,  Dr.  Gedaza  ?  When  me  and  you  was  young 
men,  we'd  be  ashamed  to  be  single  at  his  age,  hey  ? 
Why,  a  man  ain't  a  goot  Jew,  if  he  don't  get 
married.  Might  just  as  well  be  an  American  right 
out.  If  I  was  you,  Elias  Bacharach,  I'd  be  afraid. 
The  Lord  will  punish  you.  You  better  get  married, 
or  look  out." 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

"  There  ain't  any  doubt  about  that." 

"  A  young  fellow  ought  to  get  married,  and  no 
mistake." 

Remarks  such  as  these  went  up  from  all  direc- 
tions ;  and  poor  Elias  felt  like  the  most  miser- 
able of  sinners. 

Tillie  came  to  his  rescue.  '*  Oh,  let  Mr.  Bach- 
arach alone,"  she  cried.  "  He  ain't  dead  )'et. 
Give  him  time."  Then,  turning  to  the  victim, 
"  Don't  you  mind  them.  They've  got  marriage  on 
the  brain. — How  are  you  going  to  spend  this  sum- 
mer ?     In  the  country  ?  " 

"  Well.  I  haven't  made  any  plans  yet,"  he  an- 
swered ;   "  have  you  ?  " 

'*  Oh,  yes — we're  going  to   the  Catskills — Tan- 


19S  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    T HO  RAH. 

nerstown — all  of  us.  Ever  been  there  ?  It's  per- 
fectly ideal — the  grandest  place  I  ever  did  see. 
And  such  a  lot  of  nice  people  !  I  must  know  a  hun- 
dred at  the  very  least,  who  are  going  there  this 
season — Advance  Club  people — friends  of  my 
uncle  Wash.  You  said  you  didn't  belong  to  the 
Advance.  Why  don't  you  join  ?  If  I  were  a  man, 
wouldn't  I,  though  !  They  give  the  most  elegant 
balls  that  you  can  possibly  imagine.  Mamma  and 
I  go  to  all  of  them.  Mamma  took  the  prize  at  the 
last." 

"  Prize  for  what  ?  "  asked  Elias. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  They  give  a  prize  for 
the  most  original  costume  ;  generally  a  book,  or 
a  work  of  art.  Mamma's  was  a  magnificent  picture 
album,  with  hinges  and  clasps  of  hammered  silver 
— solid,  not  plated.  The  ladies  all  go  in  costume,  and 
each  one  tries  to  wear  the  most  curious  and  surpris- 
ing. Well,  for  instance,  one  lady  represented  a 
match.  She  had  a  dress  just  perfectly  covered 
with  burned  matches,  and  matches  in  her  hair,  and 
for  ear-rings,  and  every  thing.  Then,  another  lady, 
she  went  as  a  pack  of  cards  ;  and  her  dress  was 
just  one  mass  of  patch-work,  and  each  patch  was 
a  card.  And  then  mamma — Well,  guess.  What  do 
you  suppose  mamma  represented  ?  " 

"  I  give  it  up." 

*'  Well,  it  was  simply  the  grandest  idea  you  can 
possibly  imagine.  It  took  the  whole  room  by 
storm.  Gracious  me,  how  they  did  laugh  and  ap- 
plaud !     She  went  as  a  fireman." 


THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH.  199 

"  A — what  ?  "  gasped  Elias. 

"  Yes,  a  fireman.  She  had  a  red  shirt  with  brass 
buttons,  and  a  helmet,  and  a  badge,  and  a  hatchet, 
and  a  big  black  mustache,  like  a  regular  mem- 
ber of  the  department.  Well,  she  did  look  just  too 
funny  for  any  thing.  You  ought  to  have  been  there. 
You'd  have  laughed  to  die.  I  had  a  side-ache  for 
a  week  afterward.  She  and  the  match  were  rivals  ; 
and  there  was  quite  a  lot  of  betting  as  to  who  would 
come  in  first.  But,  as  the  judge  who  made  the 
awards  said,  she  did  her  duty,  and  extinguished  the 
match.  That  was  pretty  good,  wasn't  it?  She  got 
the  prize,  and  the  match  got  an  honorable  mention." 

"  And  your  own  costume  ?  "  Elias  questioned. 
"  What  was  that  like  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  went  in  an  ordinary  white  dress.  Mamma 
thought  I  was  too  young  to  take  a  character.  But 
next  fall — Promise  you  won't  tell.  You  mustn't 
breathe  a  word  of  it,  will  you  ?  Next  fall,  I'm 
going  as  an  ear  of  corn." 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  Elias,  "  how  can  that  be 
managed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we've  got  it  all  designed  ;  and  my  Uncle 
Wash,  he's  having  some  stuff  woven  on  purpose,  to 
represent  the  kernels.  It's  right  in  his  line,  you 
know.  You  wait  till  you  see  it.  It  will  be  simply 
the  most  ideal  thing  you  can  possibly  imagine.  But 
please  don't  mention  it.  Some  one  else  might  do  it 
first,  and  get  in  ahead  of  me,  if  you  did." 

"You  may  rely  upon  me,"  Elias  vowed.  "I'll 
be  as  secret  as  the  grave." 


200  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH, 

The  rabbi  now  rose,  and  began  to  make  his 
adieux.     Elias  followed  his  example. 

"You  two  gentlemen  come  up  here  to  dinner 
next  Sunday  afternoon,  will  you  ?  "  demanded  Mr. 
Koch. 

Before  Elias  had  had  a  chance  to  decline,  if  he 
had  been  disposed  to  do  so,  the  rabbi  replied,  "  We 
will,  with  pleasure.     Thank  you." 

On  the  way  home,  "Well,"  the  rabbi  asked, 
"  did  you  have  a  good  time  ? " 

"  Oh,  fair,"  returned  Elias.  "  Queer  set,  aren't 
they  ? " 

"  Well,  they  have  certain  mannerisms,  yes.  But 
you  mustn't  mind  a  superficial  thing  like  that. 
They  talk  too  loud,  and  their  grammar  isn't  of  the 
choicest ;  but  they're  thoroughly  kind-hearted  and 
well-meaning  ;  and  they're  not  wanting  in  brains, 
either,  though  they  may  be  a  trifle  unpolished. 
Mr.  Koch  himself  is  a  remarkably  intelligent  man, 
a  man  of  ideas.  You  get  to  talking  to  him  some- 
time, and  you'll  find  out.  How  did  you  like  that 
little  Miss  Morgenthau  ? " 

"  Oh,  she's  quite  amusing.  Not  a  bad  little 
thing.  Very  raw  and  untamed,  but  good-natured 
enough,  I  dare  say." 

"  Her  father,  Reuben  Morgenthau,  was  a  pro- 
fessional musician — one  of  the  best  pianists  I  ever 
heard  ;  and  she  is  said  to  have  inherited  his  talent. 
He  was  lost  at  sea  when  she  was  a  baby.  Good- 
looking  girl,  isn't  she  ?  I  suppose  Washington  I. 
Koch  will  make  her  a  handsome  settlement,  when 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  201 

she  gets  married.     Yes,  I  suppose  he'll  do  some- 
thing very  handsome,  indeed." 


XVI. 


THE  sluggishness,  the  dull,  dead-and-alive  feel- 
ing, of  which  Elias  had  complained  to  his 
uncle,  seemed  to  be  tightening  its  hold  upon  him. 
From  morning  to-night,  each  day,  he  went  about  in 
a  state  of  profound  apathy.  His  customary  occu- 
pations had  lost  their  power  to  interest  him.  His 
painting  he  pursued  listlessly,  g^etting  no  pleasure 
from  it,  and  producing  wretched  stuff.  He  would 
sit  at  his  studio  window  for  hours  at  a  stretch, 
moping  ;  trying  to  think  of  something  to  do  that 
would  cause  him  a  little  sensation  ;  wondering 
what  the  matter  with  himself  could  be  ;  pitying 
himself  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  He  craved 
excitement  as  the  toper  craves  his  grog.  But  there 
were  grog-shops  on  every  corner  ;  he  knew  of  no 
excitement-shop.  The  entire  emotional  side  of  his 
nature  appeared  to  have  become  congealed  and  un- 
susceptible. Even  his  five  bodily  senses  had  lost 
their  edge.  His  food,  unless  he  deluged  it  with 
salt  and  pepper,  was  vapid,  flavorless.  The  cold 
water  with  which  he  bathed  in  the  morning,  felt 
lukewarm  to  his  skin.  Whatsoever  his  eye  looked 
upon,  straightway  forfeited  all  its  beauty,  all  its 
suggestiveness.      He   fancied   he   would    enjoy   a 


202  THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH. 

horse-whipping.  It  would  stir  him  up,  and  start 
his  blood  to  circulating.  Already  his  memory  of 
Christine  had  begun  to  grow  dim  and  shadowy, 
like  the  memory  of  a  person  known  only  in  a 
dream.  His  whole  acquaintance  with  her,  from 
first  to  last,  as  he  reviewed  it,  seemed  unreal  and 
dream-like.  As  a  matter  of  curiosity,  he  tried  now 
and  then  to  call  up  her  face  and  figure  ;  with  none 
but  the  vaguest,  meagerest  results.  She  had  gone 
quite  out  of  his  life,  and  was  fading  rapidly  quite 
out  of  his  thought.  When  Sunday  came,  and  the 
rabbi  reminded  him  of  their  engagement  to  dine  at 
the  Kochs*,  he  experienced  something  almost  like  a 
distinct  and  positive  pleasure.  These  people,  at 
least,  with  their  high-pitched  voices  and  peculiar 
manners,  would  afford  him  a  small  measure  of 
amusement.  He  hoped  Miss  Tillie  would  be  there. 
Her  aggressive  crudity,  which,  a  few  weeks  ago, 
would  have  cut  him  like  a  knife,  would  now  simply 
have  the  effect  of  an  agreeable  irritant. 

His  hope  in  this  respect  v/as  not  disappointed. 
The  dinner  party  consisted  of  precisely  the  same 
lot  of  people  whom  he  had  met  the  other  evening, 
without  an  addition  or  a  subtraction.  When  he 
and  the  rabbi  arrived,  they  were  all  assembled  in 
the  parlor,  forming  the  circumference  of  a  circle, 
of  which  Lester,  sprawling  upon  the  carpet,  and 
smiling  a  smile  of  beatific  inanition,  was  the  center. 
They  were  in  ecstasies  of  admiration,  which,  evi- 
dently, they  expected  the  new-comers  to  share. 
It  was  a  monstrously  fat  baby,  without  any  feat- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  203 

ares  to  speak  of ;  and  it  had  a  horrid  red  eruption 
all  over  one  side  of  its  face.  Yet,  very  gravely, 
Mr.  Koch  asked,  ''  Isn't  that  the  handsomest  baby 
you  ever  saw,  Mr.  Bacharach  ?  Wouldn't  you  like 
to  paint  his  portrait  ?  "  And  Elias  felt  constrained 
to  reply  that  it  was,  and  that  he  would. 

By  and  by  his  nurse  came,  and  bore  Master  Les- 
ter away. 

Mr.  Blum  sidled  up,  and  taking  Elias  by  the 
arm,  remarked,  "  You  was  an  artist-painter,  Mr. 
Bacharach.     Come  ;  I  shov/  you  a  work  of  art." 

He  led  his  victim  to  the  worsted-work  enormity 
above  the  mantel-piece. 

"  Hey  ?  What  you  think  of  dot  ? "  he  in- 
quired, with  a  connoisseurish  smile.  "  I  give  dot  to 
my  daughter  for  a  birthday  present.  Dot's  im- 
mense, hey  ?  I  had  it  mait  to  order.  Dot  coast 
me  a  heap  of  money.  Plow  much  you  think  dot 
coast  ?  '• 

Elias  had  no  idea.     A  great  deal,  he  supposed. 

"  Vail,  sir,  dot  coast  me  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars,  cash  down.  But  it's  worth  it.  I  don't 
consider  no  money  wasted,  dot's  spent  for  a  work 
of  art." 

Suddenly  a  look  of  intense  vacancy  spread  over 
Mr.  Blum's  countenance  ;  which  was  as  suddenly 
followed  by  one  of  liveliest  interest.  Bringing  his 
forefinger  with  a  swoop  down  upon  Elias's  cravat- 
pin — a  Roman  coin,  set  in  a  ring  of  gold — "  Ex- 
cuse me,"  he  demanded  eagerly,  "  is  dot  a  genuine 
aintique  ? " 


2C4  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

'*I  don't  know,  I'm  sure.  I  dare  say  not,"  Elias 
answered,  smothering  his  impulse  to  laugh. 

"  Where  you  bought  it  ? " 

Elias  told  him. 

"  What  you  pay  for  it  ?  " 

Elias  told  him. 

"  Oh,  vail,  dot  must  be  an  imitation.  You 
couldn't  get  no  genuine  aintique  for  a  price  like 
dot." 

Pretty  soon  a  servant  appeared,  and  announced 
that  dinner  was  ready. 

''Take  partners,"  Mr.  Koch  called  out. 

They  went  down  to  the  dining-room,  and  dis- 
tributed themselves  about  the  table  in  accordance 
with  the  instructions,  verbal  and  gestural,  issued 
by  Mrs.  Koch.  Elias  sat  between  Miss  Tillie  and 
Mrs.  Blum. 

The  men  covered  their  heads  with  their  hand- 
kerchiefs. There  was  an  instant  of  silence.  Mr. 
Koch  glanced  over  at  the  rabbi,  nodding  signifi- 
cantly ;  whereupon,  in  his  best  voice,  the  rabbi  in- 
toned a  grace.  The  men  joined  in  the  amen, 
which  they  pronounced  omen. 

The  dinner  began  with  a  cocktail,  and  wound  up 
with  a  liqueur.  There  were  ten  courses,  and  five 
kinds  of  wine.  After  the  French,  the  Jews  are  the 
best  cooks  in  the  world  ;  and  the  present  repast 
fully  sustained  their  reputation.  The  banqueters 
sat  down  at  one  o'clock.  At  a  quarter  to  five  the 
gentlemen  lit  their  cigars.  It  was  not  until  six 
o'clock  that  the  table  was  finally  deserted. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  205 

During  the  soup  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Every- 
body devoted  himself  religiously  to  his  spoon.  At 
last,  however,  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  heaving  a 
long-drawn  sigh,  and  wiping  the  tears  of  enjoy- 
ment from  his  eyes,  Mr.  Blum  exclaimed  fervently  : 
"  Ach  !  Dot  was  a  splendid  soup  ! "  And  his 
spouse  wagged  her  jolly  old  head  approvingly  at 
him,  from  across  the  table,  and  gurgled  :  "  Du 
lieber  Gott  !  " 

This  was  the  signal  for  a  general  loosening  of 
tongues.  A  very  loud  and  animated  conversation 
at  once  broke  forth  from  all  directions.  It  was 
carried  on,  for  the  most  part,  in  something  like 
English  ;  but  every  now  and  then  it  betrayed  a 
tendency  to  lapse  into  German. 

**  Vail,"  announced  Mr.  Blum,  with  a  patheti- 
cally reflective  air,  "  when  I  look  around  this  table, 
and  see  all  these  smiling  faces,  and  smell  dot  cook- 
ing, and  drink  dot  wine — my  Gott  ! — dot  reminds 
me  of  the  day  I  lainded  at  the  Baittery,  forty-five 
years  ago,  with  just  exactly  six  dollars  in  my 
pocket.  I  didn't  much  think  then  that  I'd  be  here 
to-day.     Hey,  Rebecca  ?  " 

"  Ach,  Gott  is  goot,"  Mrs.  Blum  responded, 
lifting  her  hand  and  casting  her  eyes  toward  the 
ceiling. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  murmured  Mrs.  Koch,  with  pro- 
found emotion,  "  and  you  didn't  think  you'd  be  a 
graindpa,  neither,  with  such  a  loafly  little  graind- 
son,  did  you  ?  " 

*'  I  didn't  think  I'd  be  much   of  any  thing  at  all, 


2o6  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH, 

dot's  a  faict.  I  didn't  half  no  prospects,  and  I 
didn't  haif  no  friends.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  my 
religion,  I  don't  know  what  I  done.  I  guess  I 
commit  suicide.  But  I  was  a  good  Jew,  and  I 
knew  the  Lord  would  help  me.  Then  I  got  mar- 
ried, and  dot  brought  me  goot  luck.  When  me  and 
Rebecca  got  married,  I  was  earning  just  exactly 
five  dollars  a  week,  as  a  journeyman  tailor.  There's 
an  exaimple  for  you,  Elias  Bacharach." 

"  Your  success  has  been  very  remarkable,"  ob- 
served the  rabbi. 

"  My  success — what  you  think  my  success  has 
been  due  to,  Elias  Bacharach  ?" 

"  Oh,  to  business  wisdom — to  what  they  call 
genius,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  sir — no,  siree.  Nodings  of  the  kind.  I 
owe  my  success  to  three  things  :  to  my  God,  my 
wife,  and  my  industry.  I  ain't  no  smarter  than 
any  other  man.  But  all  my  life  I  been  industrious; 
and  the  Lord  has  given  me  good  health  ;  and  my 
wife  has  taken  care  of  my  earnings.  All  my  life  I 
go  to  work  at  six  or  seven  o'clock  every  morning  ; 
and  I  don't  never  leave  my  work  till  it  can  spare 
me.  You  aisk  my  son-in-law.  He  tell  you  that  I 
get  down-town  every  morning  at  seven  o'clock  ; 
and  I  don't  go  home  in  the  busy  season  till  ten  or 
eleven  at  night  ;  and  I'm  sixty-five  years  old. 
Dot's  what  mait  my  success.     Hey,  Rebecca  ?  " 

''  Ach,  Gott  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Blum.  There  was  a 
frog  in  her  voice,  and  her  merry  little  eyes  were 
dim   with  tears.     She  turned  to    Elias,  and  whis- 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  207 

pered  :  "  Oh,  he's  such  a  goot  man,  that  man   of 
mine  !  " 

"  Elias  Bacharach,"  pursued  Mr.  Blum,  "  you 
see  dot  lady  there,  next  to  you— my  wife  ?  Vail, 
she's  pretty  near  as  old  as  I  am,  and  maybe  you 
don't  think  she's  very  hainsome.  But  I  tell  you 
this.  She's  just  exactly  as  hainsome  in  my  eyes 
to-day,  as  she  was  on  the  day  when  we  got  mar- 
ried ;  and  that's  forty  years  ago  already." 

Mrs,  Blum  was  blushing  now,  peony  red  ;  and  she 
cried  out,  *'  Oh,  go  'vay  !  Shut  up  !  "  And  all 
around  the  table  a  laugh  went,  at  the  fond  old 
couple's  expense. 

When  sobriety  was  restored,  ''  I  saw  by  the 
papers,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  that  the  manufacturers  of 
clothing  have  been  having  trouble  with  their  work- 
men, lately — strikes,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  How 
have  you  got  along  with  yours  ? " 

"Oh,  we — we  got  along  maiknificent,"  Mr.  Blum 
replied.  "You  see  my  son-in-law  over  there  ?  He 
mainage  the  whole  affair.     You  aisk  him." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Koch — when  Mr.  Koch 
spoke,  he  raised  his  voice,  and  assumed  a  declam- 
atory style,  as  though  in  fancy  he  were  addressing 
a  public  meeting — "  Yes,  sir,  when  I  saw  that  other 
houses  were  having  trouble,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
take  the  bull  by  the  horns.  So  I  called  all  our  men 
together,  and  I  talked  to  them  up  and  down.  I 
gave  it  to  them  straight.  *  Look  at  here,  boys,' 
said  I,  '  I  want  you  to  understand  that  the  firm  of 
Blum  &  Koch   are  not   merely    your    employers ; 


2o8  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

they're  your  friends.  They're  the  best  friends 
you've  got,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  They  mean 
to  deal  fairly  and  squarely  with  you  in  every  thing, 
and  they  want  to  Tdc  dealt  with  the  same  way  by 
you.  You  have  rights,  and  we  mean  to  recognize 
and  protect  your  rights.  You  have  interests,  and 
we  mean  to  make  your  interests  our  interests. 
And  unless  I'm  hugely  mistaken,  we've  always 
done  it.  Well,  now,  look  at  here.  If  you  men  ain't 
contented  ;  if  you  think  you've  got  any  grievances  ; 
or  if  there's  any  demands  you  want  to  make,  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  do.  Don't  you  come  to  us  as 
enemies,  or  strikers  ;  but  you  just  come  right  up 
like  one  friend  to  another,  and  you  tell  us  in  a 
friendly  way  what  you  want ;  and  I  promise  you 
that  every  thing  you  ask  will  be  considered,  and 
every  thing  that's  even  fair-to-middling  reasonable, 
will  be  done  for  you  ? '  That's  what  I  said  to  the 
men  ;  and  it  worked  like  magic.  They  gave  three 
cheers  for  Blum  &  Koch  ;  and  two  or  three  days 
later  they  sent  a  committee  with  a  statement  of 
their  claims.  Well,  sir,  the  granting  of  those 
claims  involved  a  net  loss  of  two  per  cent,  annually 
on  our  profits  ;  but  we  talked  it  over,  and  we  made 
up  our  minds  that  the  harm  it  would  do  us, 
wouldn't  equal  the  good  it  would  do  the  men  ;  and 
so  we  gave  in  gracefully.  There  was  one  point, 
though,  on  which  we  held  off.  But  we  told  them 
our  reasons  for  holding  off  on  that  ;  and  after  they 
thought  it  over,  they  came  and  confessed  that  we 
were  in  the  right." 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  209 

"Would  it  be  indiscreet  to  ask  what  that   point 
was  ?  "  the  rabbi  ventured. 

"  Not  at  all.  It  was  this.  We  got  a  man  in  our 
employ — one  of  our  best  hands — an  Irishman  of  the 
name  of  O'Day — who's  been  with  us  ever  since  we 
started  manufacturing.  You  know,  when  we  first 
went  into  business,  we  simply  jobbed.  We  didn't 
begin  to  manufacture  till  '76.  Well,  that  man, 
O'Day,  a  year  or  two  ago,  he  contracted  a  kind  of 
a  nervous  disease,  which  makes  it  impossible  for 
him  to  do  his  work  when  the  other  workmen  are 
around.  He  can  work  perfectly  well  alone  ;  but  in 
the  room  with  the  others,  he  gets  excited,  and  loses 
his  head,  and  can't  take  a  stitch.  At  the  same 
time,  he's  got  a  family  to  support.  So  we've  given 
him  a  machine,  and  we  allow  him  to  do  his  work 
in  his  own  home.  Well,  sir,  the  men,  they're  dead 
set  against  tenement-house  labor  ;  and  they  wanted 
us  to  discharge  O'Day.  We  wouldn't.  It  struck 
us  as  such  a  dirty  mean  thing  to  do,  that  we  made 
up  our  minds  the  Lord  would  punish  us,  if  we  did 
it.  We  made  up  our  minds  that  if  we  did  that, 
we'd  deserve  to  have  bad  luck  right  along.  So  we 
told  the  men  we  wouldn't.  We  told  them  that 
we'd  rather  shut  down  and  go  out  of  the  trade, 
than  discharge  O'Day — which  was  the  fact.  We 
said  we'd  always  been  a  prosperous  house  ;  and 
that  we  believed  we  owed  our  prosperity  chiefly  to 
the  fact  that  we'd  never  done  any  thing  to  offend 
the  Lord.  We  said  that  right  out.  And  we  said 
also  that  if  any  other  man  in  our  employ  should 


2 TO  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH, 

get  in  the  same  box,  we'd  treat  him  the  same  way. 
Well,  as  I  say,  the  men,  they  thought  it  over,  and 
they  concluded  that  we  were  in  the  right." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  added  Mr.  Blum,  "  we  believe  in 
treating  our  hands  like  feller-beings.  I  was  a 
hand  myself,  already.  Dot's  a  great  advaintage. 
We  don't  go  on  the  American  plan,  and  treat  them 
like  machines." 

"  Now,  don't  you  get  started  on  that  subject," 
cried  Mr.  Koch.  "  There's  nothing  he's  so  preju- 
diced about,  as  every  thing  American.  /'///  an 
American.  We're  all  Americans.  The  Americans 
are  the  grandest  people  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  make  dot  out,"  retorted 
Mr.  Blum. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  how  I  make  it  out.  I  make 
it  out  this  way.  But  first,  you  just  hold  on.  Let's 
see  \\o^ you  make  it  out.  What  do  yo2i  judge  the 
Americans  from  ?  What  do  you  know  about  them, 
anyhow  ?  Why,  you  meet  a  few  of  them  down- 
town ;  and  you're  prejudiced  against  them,  to  begin 
with,  because  they're  Christians  ;  and  they're  prej- 
udiced against  you,  because  you're  a  Jew  ;  and  you 
and  they  don't  understand  each  other,  and  don't 
get  on  together  ;  and  the  consequence  is,  your 
mutual  prejudices  are  simply  intensified.  Well, 
now,  that  ain't  a  fair  way  to  judge  a  people.  I'll 
leave  it  to  Dr.  Gedaza  if  it  is.  I'he  right  way  is, 
not  to  take  individuals,  but  to  take  public  senti- 
ment. Public  sentiment,  that  is  to  say,  the  feeling 
of  the  people  in  general  on  questions  of  importance 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  21 1 

— that's   the    real   index  of  a   people's  character 
And  there  ain't  another  country  in  the  world,  where 
public  sentiment  is  so  high  as  it  is  right  here  in  the 
United  States  of  America." 

"  In  what  respects  ?  "  questioned  the  rabbi. 

Mrs.  Koch  put  in  :  ''  You  needn't  scream  so, 
Washington.  We  ain't  none  of  us  daif."  But  her 
husband  didn't  hear  her. 

"  In  what  respects  ?  "  he  shouted,  swelling  with 
emotion.  "  Why,  in — in  every  respect — on  every 
question  of  honor  and  decency  and  morality.  Here's 
a  simple  example.  You  go  to  Europe — you  go  to 
London,  Berlin,  Paris — I  don't  care  which — and 
you  notice  the  way  the  drivers  beat  their  horses  in 
the  public  streets  ;  and  nobody  thinks  any  thing  of 
it,  nor  dreams  of  interfering.  If  they  tried  to  do  it 
here,  in  New  York,  they'd  be  mobbed  in  no  time. 
Well,  that  may  seem  a  trifle  ;  but  it  aint  a  trifle. 
No,  sir.  For  it  points  to  a  radical  defect  in  the 
European  character,  and  to  a  positive  virtue  in  the 
American.  It's  the  sense  of  fair  play — that's  what 
it  is.  Don't  abuse  a  creature,  simply  because  he's 
defenseless  and  you've  got  the  upper  hand.  Do 
you  see  ?  Then  take  the  American  way  of  treating 
women.  You  let  a  respectable  young  girl,  pro- 
vided she's  good-looking — you  let  Tillie,  there — 
go  out  alone  in  Paris  or  Berlin,  and  when  she  gets 
back,  you  ask  her  whether  she's  been  stared  at,  or 
insulted.  But  you  let  her  go  out  here.  Why,  she 
could  travel  alone  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco, 
and  not  run  a  risk.     Then  take  morality  and  de- 


212  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

cency.  And  take  the  American  way  of  doing  busi- 
ness— the  big,  generous  scale  on  which  every  thing 
is  done,  and  the  sense  of  honor  among  business 
men.  They're  sharp  and  close,  I  admit,  but  they 
mean  what  they  say  every  time.  I  tell  you,  it's 
grand,  it's  beautiful  ;  it  does  me  good  every  time  I 
think  of  it.  I  go  to  Europe  every  two  or  three 
years  on  business  ;  and  I  get  a  chance  of  compar- 
ing. It  makes  me  sick,  the  depravity,  the  corrup- 
tion, and  the  stinginess,  you  meet  everywhere  over 
there." 

The  orator  sank  back  in  his  chair,  panting,  and 
absent-mindedly  mopped  his  brow  with  his  napkin. 

"Vail,  dot's  pretty  good,"  cried  Mr.  Blum,  with 
cutting  irony,  ''and  what  you  say  of  them  big 
American  bank  swindlers,  hey  ?  They  do  things 
on  a  generous  scale,  don't  they  ?  " 

"  That's  no  argument,"  replied  his  son-in-law. 
"  That  don't  signify  any  thing.  If  you  want  to 
argue,  you  just  answer  me  this.  If  you  think  Amer- 
ica's such  a  poor  sort  of  a  place,  what  did  you  com* 
here  for,  any  way  ?  " 

*'  Oh,  I  came  because  I  didn't  have  no  money  ; 
and  I  got  an  idea  the  streets  here  was  paved  with 
gold." 

"Well,  now  that  you've  got  money,  and  now 
that  you  know  the  streets  here  ain't  paved  with 
gold,  why  don't  you  go  back  ? " 

"  Oh,  dot — dot  is  another  question." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  why.  Because  you  like  it 
here.     Because,  down  deep,  you  think  it's  the  finest 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE   THORAH.  213 

country  in  the  world.  You  talk  against  it,  for  the 
love  of  talking.  If  you  went  to  Europe,  you'd  be 
as  homesick  as  anybody." 

^*  Ain't  my  uncle  a  splendid  conversationalist  ?  " 
Tillie  whispered  to  Elias. 

"Washington,"  said  his  father-in-law,  solemnly, 
"you  got  a  head  on  you  like  Daniel  Webster's." 

"  Oh,  papa  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Koch.  "  You  make 
me  die  with  laifing." 

Mrs.  Blum  was  rocking  from  side  to  side  in  her 
chair,  and  murmuring,  "  Gott !  Gott !  Gott  !  " 

For  a  while,  again,  there  was  silence  ;  which, 
again,  by  and  by,  Mr.  Blum  was  the  first  to  break. 

"  Sarah,"  he  declared,  addressing  his  daughter, 
"  them  pickles  is  simply  graind." 

"  I  opened  a  new  jar  to-day,  papa,"  Mrs.  Koch 
returned. 

"  Elias  Bacharach,"  the  old  gentleman  con- 
tinued, "  whatjw^  think  of  them  pickles  ?" 

"  They're  delicious,"  Elias  said. 

"  Vail,  sir,  my  daughter,  she  make  them  herself. 
I  think  she  make  the  best  pickles  going." 

"  Oh,  papa,"  protested  Mrs.  Koch,  blushing. 
'*  How  can  you  say  dot,  when  Aintoinette  Morgen- 
thau  is  seated  right  next  to  you  ?  Her  pickles  beat 
mine  all  hollow." 

"  No,"  cried  Mrs.  Morgenthau,  magnanimously  ; 
"  he's  right.     You're  the  boss." 

"  Vail,"  pursued  Mr.  Blum,  judicially,  "  there  is 
a  difference.  Aintoinette's  pickles  is  splendid — 
dot's  a  faict.     Maybe  their  flavor  is  just  exactly  as 


214  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

good  as  yours.  But  yours  is  crisper.  My  Gott ! 
when  I  put  one  of  your  pickles  in  my  mouth,  dot 
makes  me  feel  said.  I  never  taste  no  pickles  so  crisp 
as  them,  since  I  was  a  little  boy  in  Chairmany,  and 
ate  my  mamma's.  Her  pickles — oh,  they  was 
loafly,  they  was  maiknificent." 

"  Ach,  papa  !  You  got  so  much  zendimend  !  "  his 
daughter  exclaimed,  with  deep  sympathy. 

"  You  ought  to  taste  my  mamma's  pickles," 
Tillie  whispered  to  Elias.  ''  Of  course,  Mr.  Blum 
is  prejudiced  in  favor  of  his  daughter's." 

"  Been  to  the  theater  lately,  Mr.  Bacharach  ? " 
Mr.  Koch  called  out. 

"  No,"  said  Elias,  little  foreseeing  the  effect  of 
his  announcement  ;  ''  I  don't  go  to  the  theater 
much.     I'm  not  very  fond  of  it." 

Immediately,  from  all  directions,  there  was  an 
outburst  of  astonishment  and  indignation  ;  for  in 
New  York  the  theater  has  no  patrons  more  ardent 
or  devoted  than  the  German  Jews. 

''  Oh,  Mr.  Bacharach  !  " 

"  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing  ?  " 

"Gott  in  Himmel  !" 

"  Oh,  you  don't  mean  it !  " 

"Vail,  if  I  aifer!" 

And  so  forth,  till  the  poor  fellow  was  blushing 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  and  would  have  liked  to 
bite  his  tongue  out.  Mr.  Koch  took  up  the  cud- 
gels in  his  behalf. 

"Oh,  come,"  he  shouted,  "don't  make  Mr. 
Bacharach  feel  as  though  he'd  brought  the  Tower 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  215 

of  Babel  crashing  around  his  ears.  He's  got  a  right 
to  his  opinion,  hasn't  he  ?  I  understand  the  way  he 
feels.  In  fact,  I  feel  about  the  same  way,  myself. 
I  go  to  the  theater  a  good  deal,  I  don't  deny  ;  but 
that's  because  there's  nothing  else  to  do.  When  I 
get  home  at  night  I'm  fagged  out,  and  I  want  a 
little  amusement,  and  I  take  my  wife  and  go  to  the 
theater.  But  all  the  same,  I'm  free  to  say  that  the 
theaters  here  in  this  town  are  about  as  poor  as  they 
can  make  them,  and  no  mistake.  Melodrama  and 
burlesque — that's  what  they  give  you.  Good, 
honest  pictures  of  life — where'll  you  find  them,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  Now  and  then  you  get  a  big  star — 
Salvini  or  Booth  ;  now  and  then  you  get  an  old 
English  comedy ;  but  it's  the  average  that  I'm 
talking  about,  and  I  defy  any  man  to  say  any 
thing  in  defense  of  that.  You  folks,  you  go  to  the 
theater,  the  same  as  I  do,  because  you  haven't  got 
any  thing  else  to  do.  But  an  intellectual  young 
fellow  like  Mr.  Bacharach,  he  don't  need  any  out- 
side amusements  of  that  sort.  He'd  rather  stay 
home,  and  think  ;  wouldn't  you,  Mr.  Bacharach  ? " 

"  Washington,"  said  Mr.  Blum,  "  you're  talking 
about  American  theayters.  But  what  you  got 
against  the  Chairman  theayter — the  Thalia — hey?  " 

"  Oh,  you  go  'way.  You  want  to  get  back  to 
our  old  quarrel,"  Mr.  Koch  retorted.  "  No, 
thanks." 

"  Sarah,"  said  her  father,  abruptly,  *'  there's  one 
of  your  adopted  children — my  grainchild,  conse- 
quently," he  added,  winking  humorously  at  Elias. 


2i6  THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH. 

He  pointed  toward  the  open  window,  at  which 
appeared  the  red  and  weather-beaten  visage  of  an 
elderly  tramp.  The  tramp  was  peering  in  through 
the  iron  bars,  and  muttering  an  inarticulate,  plaint- 
iveprayer — presumably  for  "  cold  victuals."  Mrs. 
Koch  glanced  over  her  shoulders  at  him,  and  then, 
addressing  a  hasty  "  Excuse  me,"  to  the  company, 
got  up  and  left  the  room. 

**  She's  got  about  twenty  of  them  fellers,"  Mr. 
Blum  informed  Elias,  "  who  she  tries  to  be  a  mud- 
der  for.  She  feeds  them,  and  clothes  them,  and 
gives  them  free  lectures.  They're  coming  all  the 
time.  We  don't  never  sit  down  to  a  meal,  but  one 
of  them  sticks  his  head  in  the  winder.  Now,  you 
just  listen." 

Out  in  the  area,  Mrs.  Koch's  high-pitched 
voice  could  be  heard  earnestly  speaking  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  Oh,  you  baid  man  !  You  told  me  you  wouldn't 
touch  another  drop  of  liquor  this  week  !  And  now 
I  see  you  been  indoxicated  !  You  smell  perfectly 
outracheous  ;  and  dot  loafly  coat  I  give  you,  all 
spoiled  !  I  got  a  great  mind  to  send  you  away,  and 
naifer  do  nothing  for  you  any  more." 

A  dull  reverberation,  like  the  far-distant  roll  of 
muffled  drums,  testified  that  the  tramp  was  plead- 
ing in  his  defense.  After  which,  Mrs.  Koch  went 
on  :  "  Vail,  you  promise  you  don't  drink  another 
glaiss  of  liquor  till  next  Sunday,  hey  ?  You  cross 
your  heart,  and  promise  ?  All  right.  Then,  you 
take  this.     And  bright  and  early,  to-morrow  morn- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH  217 

ing,  you  come  around  here,  and  I  give  you  a  job. 
I  want  my  cellar  to  be  cleaned  out." 

"  She  makes  them  fellers  say  they'll  come  around 
to-morrow  morning,  every  time  she  sees  them  ;  but 
they  don't  never  come,"  Mr.  Blum  announced. 
"  She's  keeping  dot  cellar  dirty  just  on  purpose,  so 
dot  some  time  she  can  give  the  chop  to  one  of  them 
good-for-nodings.  I  guess  I  clean  it  out  myself, 
if  dot  goes  on  much  longer. — Hey  !  Hold  on, 
there  !  "  he  cried,  with  sudden  excitement.  He 
ran  to  the  window  ;  stopped  the  tramp,  who  was  in 
process  of  departure  ;  and  deposited  a  twenty-five- 
cent  silver  piece  in  his  grimy  palm.  Returning  to 
his  seat,  he  appeared  quite  oblivious  to  the  laughter 
at  his  expense,  in  which  the  others  were  indulging. 

"  You  want  to  kill  that  old  fellow,  don't  you  ? " 
Mr.  Koch  demanded.  "  Giving  him  a  quarter  ! 
Why,  it  will  bring  on  an  attack  of  delirium  tre- 
mens." 

"  Dot's  all  right,"  Mr.  Blum  replied.  "  I  know 
how  it  is  myself.  I  was  pretty  near  to  being  a 
traimp  myself,  one  time,  already.  Hey,  Rebecca  ?  " 

"  Du  bist  ein  Engel — ja  wohl  ! — ein  himmlischer, 
wunderschoener  Engel  !  "  cried  his  wife,  her  broad 
face  beaming  like  a  harvest  moon.  Then  she  whis- 
pered to  Elias,  "  Ach  !  He  is  so  loafly,  dot  Meester 
Blum  !  "  and  kept  swaying  her  head,  and  smiling  to 
herself,  for  the  next  ten  minutes. 

With  the  coffee,  the  gentlemen  lighted  their 
cigars,  and,  leaving  their  respective  places,  gathered 
in  a  knot  at  one  end  of  the  table,  where  they  began 


2l8  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

vociferously  to  exchange  their  views  upon  the  state  ot 
trade.  The  ladies  assembled  at  the  other  end,  and 
discoursed  of  topics  maternal  and  domestic.  Les- 
ter was  produced,  and  trotted  upon  his  grand- 
mother's lap,  while  his  *'  points  "  were  mooted  and 
admired  for  the  thousandth  time.  Finally,  the  men 
again  covered  their  heads  ;  and  the  rabbi  chanted 
his  grace  after  meat.  Then  Mr.  Koch  proposed 
that  the  company  should  ascend  to  the  parlor,  and 
listen  to  some  music.  In  the  parlor  the  gentle- 
men lighted  fresh  cigars  ;  and  Miss  Tillie  seated 
herself  at  the  piano. 

She  played  the  second  Hungarian  Rhapsody, 
and  the  Allegro  Appassionato  from  the  Moonlight 
Sonata,  and  Chopin's  Funeral  March,  and  she 
played  them  all  marvelously  well.  Her  technic  was 
exact  and  brilliant  ;  her  feeling  was  ardent,  intelli- 
gent and  refined.  For  an  hour  she  flooded  the 
room  with  bewitching  harmonies,  and  held  every 
heart  there  spellbound.  Elias,  whose  chief  senti- 
ment for  her,  a  short  while  ago,  had  been  one  of 
half  contemptuous  amusement,  felt  an  emotion  very 
like  genuine  respect  begin  to  stir  within  his  bosom. 
It  astonished  him,  it  awed  him  a  little,  to  find  that 
a  young  lady  who,  in  the  commoner  relations  of 
life,  appeared  so  crude  and  so  prosaic,  was  pos- 
sessed of  such  superb  and  consummate  genius  for 
a  noble  art.  **  There  must  be  something  in  her, 
after  all,"  he  thought.  She,  perhaps,  divined  what 
was  going  on  in  his  mind  ;  for,  when  he  had  finished 
complimenting  her  upon  her  performance,  she  said, 


THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH.  219 

in  a  subdued  voice,  and  with  a  gentler  air  than  her 
usual  one,  '*  I  know,  Mr.  Bacharach,  that  I'm  not 
very  much  in  conversation  ;  but  when  I  sit  down  at 
the  piano,  it  seems  as  though  somehow  I  was 
another  girl,  and  a  great  deal  nicer  one  ;  and  I  feel 
things  that  I  don't  ever  feel  anywhere  else.  I 
guess  maybe  music's  my  natural  method  of  ex- 
pression." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Bacharach,"  Mr.  Koch  said,  when 
Elias  and  the  rabbi  were  taking  their  leave,  ''  don't 
treat  us  like  strangers.  Drop  in  on  us  any  evening, 
or  to  dinner  any  Sunday  afternoon.  We'll  always 
be  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Yes  ;  come  over  often,"  added  Mrs.  Koch. 
*'  Come  just  exactly  as  if  you  was  to  home." 


XVII. 


ELIAS  had  enjoyed  his  dinner  at  the  Kochs' 
'  very  much.  He  had  been  greatly  amused  by 
it ;  but  he  had  derived  from  it,  besides,  a  pleasure 
that  was  deeper  than  mere  amusement — the 
pleasure,  namely,  which  comes  of  contact  with 
people  whom  we  feel  to  be  thoroughly  good  and 
wholesome. 

"  They,  with  their  strident  voices,  and  vulgar 
manners,  and  untutored  ways  of  thinking,  are  the 
sort  of  Jews  that  Gentiles  judge  the  race  by,"  he  re- 
flected.    ''  It  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  underneath 


220  THE    YOKE   OF    FHE    THORAH. 

all  their  superficial  roughness  and  unrefinement, 
the  core  is  sound  and  sweet." 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  agreeable  anticipation  that, 
on  the  following  Thursday  evening,  he  started  out 
to  pay  his  digestion  visit. 

The  maid-servant  showed  him  into  the  parlor, 
and  went  off  to  announce  him.  Returning  a  mo- 
ment later,  she  asked  him  to  step  down-stairs  to 
the  basement.  There  he  was  very  cordially  wel- 
comed ;  and  Mr.  Koch  explained,  ''  I  thought 
you'd  rather  join  us  down  here,  than  have  us  come 
up  to  the  show-room.  (That's  my  nick-name  for 
the  parlor  ;  pretty  good,  hey  ?)  Down  here  it's 
more  comfortable  and  hom.ey." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blum  smiled  and  swayed  their 
heads  at  him  ;  and  Mrs.  Koch,  clasping  Lester  to 
her  bosom  with  one  hand,  offered  him  the  other. 

"  We  don't  want  to  make  company  of  you,  Mr. 
Bacharach,"  Mr.  Koch  went  on;  "and  so,  after 
my  wife  has  put  Lester  to  bed,  you  must  come 
around  with  us  to  Winkum's.  We're  going  to 
meet  my  brother-in-law  and  my  sisters  around 
there." 

"  I  shall  be  very  happy,"  Elias  responded.  "  But 
Winkum's — what  is  it  ?  and  where  ? " 

"Oh,  Winkum's  is  Terrace  Garden.  I  always 
call  it  Winkum's,  because  a  man  named  Winkum 
kept  it  when  I  first  began  to  go  there,  years  ago  ; 
and  I've  never  got  used  to  calling  it  by  its  new 
name.     Force  of  habit." 

Mrs.  Koch  passed  Lester  around,  and  everybody 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  221 

kissed  him  good-night.     Then  she  carried  him  from 
the  room. 

"  Have  a  cigar  ? "  asked  Mr.  Koch.  ''  They're 
genuine — Hoyo  de  MojitereysT 

Elias  took  a  cigar, 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blum  were  whispering  together,  on 
the  sofa,  over  in  the  corner.  He  appeared  to  be 
urging  her  to  do  something,  which  she,  with  blushes 
and  modest  smiles,  was  protesting  against. 

"  Come,"  cried  Mr.  Koch  ;  ''  it  ain't  polite  to 
whisper  in  company.  What  you  people  conspir- 
ing about  ? " 

"  I  want  her,"  Mr.  Blum  answered,  "to  offer 
Elias  Bacharach  some  of  her  cheese-cake  ;  and 
she's  too  baishful.  Elias  Bacharach,  my  wife  every 
now  and  then,  she  make  us  a  cheese-cake.  You* 
never  taste  any  thing  like  it.  It's  simply  elegant. 
Vail,  she  make  us  one  to-day  ;  and  I  want  her  to 
give  you  a  bite  of  it,  just  to  show  what  she  can  do. 
But  she — she's  just  exactly  as  baishful  as  she  was 
the  day  we  got  married  ;  and  that's  forty  years 
ago,  already." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Blum,"  Elias  pleaded,  "  I  shall  really 
feel  very  much  offended,  if  you  don't  let  me  taste 
it.  There's  nothing  in  the  world  I  like  so  well  as 
cheese-cake.     Please  don't  disappoint  me." 

Blushing  and  giggling,  the  old  lady  got  up,  and 
said,  "  Ach,  Gott !  All  right,"  and  waddled  from 
the  room.  Presently  she  waddled  back,  and  placed 
an  enormous  slice  of  cheese-cake,  together  with 
knife,  fork,  and  napkin,  upon  the  table.     Then  she 


22  2  THE    YOKE    OF    THE    TllORAH. 

sat  down,  and  crossed  her  hands  upon  her  stomach, 
and  watched  Elias  as  he  ate.  Between  his  mouth- 
fuls,  he  kept  uttering  ejaculations  of  delight  and 
wonder  :  marvelous  !  delicious  !  never  tasted  any 
thing  equal  to  it  in  all  my  life  !  etc.  She  kept 
swaying  her  head  and  smiling.  At  the  end,  he 
vowed  that  the  cheese-cake  was  a  triumph  of  art, 
and  confessed  that  antecedently  he  would  not  have 
believed  such  excellence  attainable.  Her  husband 
demanded,  ''  Didn't  I  tell  you  so?"  The  old  lady 
herself  was  overcome,  and  could  only  gurgle, 
"  Gott  !  Du  lieber,  lieber  Gott !  " 

By  and  by  Mrs.  Koch  reappeared  ;  and  her  hus- 
band called  out,  "  Well,  let's  start." 

At  Terrace  Garden  they  found  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Sternberg  and  Mrs.  Morgenthau  seated  at  a  round 
table  under  an  ailanthus  tree. 

"  Why,  Where's  Tillie  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Koch. 

"  Oh,  she  had  to  stay  at  home  to  work,"  her 
mother  answered.  *'  Preparing  for  some  lessons 
she  has  to  give  to-morrow." 

The  electric-lamps  flared  and  sizzled.  The 
band  played  tunes  from  comic  operas.  There  were 
many  people  present,  seated  at  similar  tables,  under 
similar  trees,  eating,  drinking,  smoking,  chatting, 
listening  to  the  music.  Their  countenances  were 
mostly  of  the  Semitic  type.  Every  now  and  then  a 
new  party  entered,  from  the  cafe  adjoining  :  an 
old  gentleman  and  lady,  a  middle-aged  gentleman 
and  lady,  and  a  troop  of  young  folks  of  both  sexes  : 
three   generations.      Your  Jew  loves  to  take  his 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  223 

pleasure  with  his  family  to  share  it.  His  boon  com- 
panions are,  as  a  rule,  his  father  and  mother,  his 
wife  and  children.  The  waiters  dashed  like  mete- 
ors hither  and  thither.  One  of  them  stopped  before 
the  table  of  our  friends  ;  and  Mr.  Koch,  having 
determined  the  sentiment  of  the  meeting,  ordered 
"beers  all  around." 

"  Vail,"  observed  Mr:  Blum,  "  to  drink  dot  beer, 
and  hear  dot  music,  and  breathe  dot  fresh  air,  dot's 
what  I  call  solid  comfort — hey  ?  " 

**  Yes  ;  and  to  see  the  people,"  added  Mr.  Koch. 
"  I  don't  know  as  there's  any  thing  that  I  enjoy 
better  than  I  do  to  sit  around  here  of  a  summer 
night,  and  watch  the  people — see  them  arrive  in 
squads,  and  then  notice  their  ways  of  enjoying 
themselves  after  they've  got  settled.  It's  quite  a 
study  ;  and  every  now  and  then  you  catch  a 
glimpse  into  a  regular  romance.  Now,  Mr.  Bach- 
arach,  you  just  take  in  that  table  over  there.  Can't 
you  imagine  how  that  young  fellow's  heart  is 
thumping,  as  he  whispers  to  her  in  that  energetic 
manner  ?  And  see  how  she  blushes,  and  fidgets 
with  her  fan,  and  pretends  not  to  like  it.  And  the 
old  folks,  her  father  and  mother,  of  course — they 
sit  placidly,  with  their  backs  turned,  and  have  no 
attention  for  any  thing  but  the  beer  and  the  music. 
I  got  a  great  mind  to  go  up  and  nudge  them.  I 
have,  as  I'm  alive." 

"  Don't  you  do  nothing  of  the  kind  !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Koch,  indignantly.     '*  The  idea  V   How  you  like  it 


2  24  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

if  some  busy-body  come  up,  and  nudge  my  papa, 
when  you  was  making  loaf  to  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  now,  what  I  admire  about  that  couple," 
pursued  Mr.  Koch,  "is  their  clever  acting. 
They're  trying  hard  not  to  give  themselves  away, 
and  not  to  let  people  see  how  sweet  they  feel.  Un- 
less a  fellow  watched  them  mighty  close,  and  had 
been  there  himself,  he  might  really  be  deceived  by 
them,  and  think  they  were  talking  about  nothing 
more  interesting  than  the  weather.  But  you  and 
me,  Mr.  Bacharach,  we're  shrewd,  and  we  know 
better.  She's  a  daisy,  and  no  mistake,  ain't  she  ? 
And  the  young  man — he  looks  like  a  respectable 
sort  of  a  chap,  too.  Well,  I  guess  I  wont  interfere. 
I  guess  I'll  do  as  you  say,  Sarah.  It  may  be  a 
desirable  match.  What's  your  advice,  mother-in- 
law  ?  " 

Mrs.  Blum,  quivering  like  a  mass  of  jelly  with 
suppressed  mirth,  responded,  "  Ach,  Gott  !  Go 
'vay  !     You  make  me  die  !  " 

Mr.  Blum,  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  exclaimed, 
"  Washington,  you  got  more  wit  about  you  than 
any  man  I  know.     It's  simply  wonderful." 

It  seemed  as  though  the  Kochs  knew  every  body 
that  came.  At  all  events,  every  body  that  passed 
their  table  stopped,  and  said  how-d'ye-do,  shaking 
hands,  and  addressing  Mr.  Koch  as  Wash.  His 
usual  rejoinder  was  :  ''  First-class.  How's  your- 
self?" 

"  I'm  sorry  your  daughter  wasn't  able  to  be  here, 
Mrs.  Morgenthau,"  Elias  said. 


THE    YOKE   OF  THE   THORAH.  225 

''  Oh,  my  daughter,"  Mrs.  Morgenthau  returned, 
**  she  works  like  a  horse.  You  never  saw  such  a 
worker.  It's  simply  fearful.  And  such  a  good  girl, 
Mr.  Bacharach.  Only  nineteen  years  old,  and 
earns  more  than  a  hundred  dollars  a  month,  and 
supports  me  and  herself.  Her  uncle,  my  brother 
over  there,  he's  as  generous  with  his  money  as  if  it 
was  water  ;  and  he  gave  Tillie  a  magnificent 
education.  But  she's  bound  to  be  self-supporting, 
and  hasn't  cost  him  a  cent  for  nearly  a  year.  Of 
course,  he  gives  her  elegant  presents  every  once  in 
awhile  ;  but  she  pays  our  expenses  by  her  own 
work.     She's  grand.    She's  an  angel." 

"You're  right  there,"  put  in  Mr.  Koch.  "  Tillie's 
all  wool,  from  head  to  foot." 

"  And  a  yard  vide,"  added  Mr.  Blum. 

"  And  such  a  brilliant  musician,"  said  Elias. 

"  Musician  ? "  echoed  her  mother.  '*  Well,  I 
should  say  so.  You  ought  to  hear  her  play,  when 
she  really  knuckles  down  to  it.  Why,  you — you'd 
jump,  you'd  get  so  excited.  The  other  night  she 
was  only  drumming — for  fun.  I  tell  you  what  you 
do.  You  come  around  and  call  on  us  some  evening, 
over  in  Beekman  Place.  Then  you'll  hear  her,  the 
right  way." 

*'  I  shall  be  very  happy  to.  It's  very  good  of  you 
to  ask  me." 

"  Good  ?  Oh,  pshaw  ;  don't  mention  it.  Tillie 
'11  be  delighted. 

"  We  shall  esteem  it  an  honor  to  welcome  you 
in   our  home,     Mr.    Bacharach,"    Mr.    Sternberg 


2  26  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

said,  with  a  stiffness  which  he  mistook  for  courtli- 
ness. 

*'  Yes,  come  over,  do,"  added  Mrs.  Sternberg. 
**  Come  Sunday  evening  and  take  supper  with  us." 

Elias  agreed  to  do  so,  with  thanks. 

"  You  folks  come  over,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Sternberg, 
addressing  the  Koch  contingent. 

"  You  may  count  upon  us,"  replied  Mr.  Koch, 
"  providing  you'll  have  enough  to  eat." 

At  which  sally  there  was  a  general  laugh. 

"  What  you  all  laughing  at  ?  "  the  wag  proceeded. 
"  I  hope  you  don't  think  I'm  joking.  I  wouldn't 
want  to  come  to  supper  with  a  family,  if  they 
didn't  have  enough  to  go  around." 

At  this,  the  laughter  was  redoubled  ;  and  Mrs. 
Morgenthau  demanded  in  a  whisper  of  Elias, 
"  Ain't  my  brother  immense  ?  " 

'*  There's  either  a  ball  or  a  wedding  going  on  in 
there,"  Mr.  Koch  announced,  pointing  to  the 
brightly-lighted  windows  of  the  hall,  that  abuts 
upon  the  garden.  "  Hear  that  music  ?  It's  a 
string-orchestra,  playing  dance  tunes.  Running  a 
race  with  our  band  here.  Wonder  which  will  come 
in  first." 

Pretty  soon  the  doors  of  the  hall  were 
thrown  wide  open  ;  and  a  stream  of  young  people 
poured  forth  into  the  garden.  The  men  wore 
dress-suits  and  patent-leather  pumps  ;  the  ladies, 
evening  costumes,  of  red,  white,  yellow,  and  other 
bright-hued  silks.  They  took  possession  of  the 
unoccupied  tabJe.?  round  about,  and   proceeded  to 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  227 

make  merry  in  a  very  noisy  and  whole-souled 
manner. 

"Yes,  it's  a  wedding,  sure  enough,"  said  Mr. 
Koch  ;  "  and  here  comes  the  bride." 

The  bride,  a  buxom  daughter  of  Israel,  of  twenty 
odd,  attired  in  canary-colored  satin,  escorted  by 
her  bridesmaids,  and  followed  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance by  the  groom  and  his  four  best  men,  drew 
up  to  the  table  nearest  that  of  our  friends,  and 
called  for  beer  and  cheese  ;  which,  when  the  waiter 
brought  them,  she  attacked  with  a  vigor  and  with  a 
directness  that  were  charming  to  witness.  Indeed, 
so  interesting  did  her  immediate  neighbors  find  the 
spectacle,  that  not  a  word  was  spoken  among 
them  for  a  long  while.  They  sat  still,  and  watched 
her  with  smitten  eyes.  At  last,  however,  she 
called  out  to  her  husband  :  **  Nun,  gut,  mein  Turtel- 
taubchen  ;  ich  bin  ganz  satt  und  gliicklich. 
Komm  'mal  mit  mir,  und  noch  ein  wenig  lass  uns 
tanzen."  And  then  Mrs.  Koch  said  that  she  was 
sorry  to  break  up  a  party,  but  she  really  thought 
she'd  better  go  home,  as  Laistair  might  have  woke 
up,  and  he  would  be  frightened  if  his  mamma 
wasn't  there  to  put  him  back  to  shleep.  This  ex- 
pression of  maternal  solicitude  produced  its  due 
effect  ;  and,  with  many  hearty  good-nights,  the 
company  departed  upon  their  several  ways. 

Sunday  evening,  Elias  rang  the  Sternberg  door- 
bell at  six  o'clock.  The  Kochs  and  the  Blums  had 
already    arrived  ;    and    they,    with    the   host    and 


2  28  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

hostess  and  Mrs.  Morgenthau  and  Tillie,  were  as- 
sembled in  the  back-parlor,  enjoying  the  view  from 
the  bay-window — up,  down,  and  across  the  river, 
and  over  the  Long  Island  country  on  the  other 
side.  He  got,  of  course,  a  very  effusive  reception. 
Mr.  Koch  inquired  what  the  good  word  was.  Miss 
Tillie  said  she  was  so  glad  to  see  him,  and  that  it 
was  perfectly  elegant  of  him  to  come.  Mr,  Stern- 
berg mixed  him  a  vermouth  cocktail,  '*  to  put  an 
edge  on  his  appetite."  And  Mr.  Blum  declared, 
vail,  he  was  looking  splendid. 

"  Supper's  all  ready,"  proclaimed  Mrs.  Stern- 
berg, and  led  the  way  to  the  back-yard,  where,  pro- 
tected by  an  awning,  the  table  fairly  groaned 
beneath  its  burden  of  good  things.  "  Say,  Wash," 
she  called  out  to  her  brother,  ^'  think  there's 
enough  ? "  Which  proved  that  Mr.  Koch's  witti- 
cisms were  not  speedily  forgotten  in  his  admiring 
circle. 

Elias  thought  it  exceedingly  pleasant"  thus  to 
feast  in  the  open  air,  while  the  sky  and  river 
glowed  with  the  reflected  splendor  of  the  sunset  ; 
and  said  so  to  Miss  Tillie.  She  replied  that  it  was 
simply  ideal,  that  they  always  did  it  in  good 
weather,  and  that  it  was  quite  the  rage  among  the 
residents  of  Beekman  Place.  Beekman  Place,  she 
went  on,  was  the  grandest  street  in  the  city,  and 
she  was  awfully  attached  to  it.  She'd  lived  there 
most  all  her  life,  and  all  the  memories  of  her  child- 
hood were  associated  with  it.  She  remembered 
when  she  used  to  go  fishing,  with  a  thread  and  a 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  229 

bent  pin,  off  the  docks  below  there,  and  how  scared 
her  mamma  used  to  get,  lest  she  should  tumble 
into  the  water,  and  be  drowned.  She  didn't  know 
what  she'd  do — she  knew  she'd  feel  just  perfectly 
fearful,  any  how — when  she  had  to  leave,  and  dwell 
elsewhere,  as  she  supposed  she  would  some  day. 
Oh,  no,  they  weren't  thinking  of  moving.  She 
meant  when  she  got  married. 

"  Why,"  exclaimed  her  interlocutor,  "  I  didn't 
know  you  were  engaged." 

"Well,  I'm  not  engaged.  But  I  suppose  I'll  get 
engaged  before  I  die.     All  girls  do." 

But  couldn't  she  persuade  her  husband  to  come 
and  live  in  Beekman  Place  ? 

Well,  that  would  depend  a  good  deal  upon  what 
sort  of  a  man  he  was.  Most  men  wouldn't  want  to 
come  so  far  out  of  the  way.  She  knew,  when  she 
was  at  college,  it  used  to  take  her  pretty  much  all 
day  going  and  coming,  and  cost  a  regular  fortune 
in  car-fares. 

College  ?     The  Normal  College  ? 

Yes.     Class  of  '82.     Salutatory. 

Indeed  !     That  was  a  great  honor. 

"  Well,  may  be  it  was  ;  but  I  didn't  care  a  cent 
for  it.  I  wanted  to  be  Valedictory.  I  worked  hard 
for  it,  for  four  years  ;  and  when  I  didn't  get  it,  you 
can't  imagine  how  horribly  bad  I  felt." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  can  understand.  It  must  have  been 
very  hard." 

"  Florence  Rosenbaum  got  it.  She,  and  I,  and 
an  American  girl  named  Redwood,  had  been  rivals 


2 so  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

ever  since  we  were  freshmen.  Some  years  one 
would  lead,  and  some  years  another.  But  at  the 
finish,  Rosenbaum  came  in  first,  and  Redwood 
third,  and  I  second.  I'd  just  as  soon  have  come  in 
last." — Tillie  paused  ;  appeared  puzzled  ;  finally 
demanded,  "  Why,  what  you  looking  so  queer 
about?" 

"Why,  nothing.  I  didn't  know  I  was  looking 
queer." 

"  I  thought  something  was  choking  you,  you  got 
so  red  in  the  face." 

"  Been  down  to  the  beach  this  season,  Mr.  Bach- 
arach  ? "  broke  in  Mr.  Koch,  having  reference, 
presumably,  to  Coney  Island.  Elias  replied  in  the 
negative.  "  Well,  then,  I  tell  you  what  let's  do," 
Mr.  Koch  proceeded,  addressing  the  table  at  large  ; 
"  let's  make  up  a  party  to  go  down  to  the  beach 
some  afternoon  this  week,  hey  ?  " 

After  a  clamorous  debate,  it  was  decided  that 
they  should  dine  at  the  beach  on  the  following 
Wednesday  evening,  provided  the  elements  were 
favorable. 

Supper  over,  they  went  up  stairs,  and  sat  in  the 
dusk,  smoking  their  cigars,  and  looking  out  of  the 
bay  window,  while  Tillie  played.  "  I'm  going  to 
give  you  a  Chopin  evening,"  she  had  said.  Elias, 
stretched  in  a  great  easy-chair,  watching  the  moon 
float  up  red  and  swollen  from  behind  the  castellated 
prison  on  Blackwell's  Island,  and  listening  to  the 
subtle,  dreamy  measures  of  the  Berceuse,  thought 
he  had  never  before  experienced  such  restful  and 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  23  f 

satisfying  pleasure.  It  got  dark.  The  moon 
shrank  and  paled.  A  million  diamonds  sparkled 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  river.  Along  the  opposite 
embankment,  the  street  lamps  gleamed  like  fallen 
stars.  A  soft  breeze,  laden  with  the  odors  of  lilac  and 
wistaria,  stole  in  at  the  window.  The  music, 
sweet  and  solemn,  thrilled  the  darkness  like  the 
voice  of  a  beautiful,  sad,  strange  spirit.  Suddenly 
it  died  away.  Somebody  lighted  the  gas.  There 
was  an  outbreak  of  talk  and  laughter.  The  spell 
was  broken.  Elias  started,  got  upon  his  feet,  bade 
his  friends  good-night,  went  home. 


XVIII. 


THEY  had  a  very  noisy  and  jolly  time  down  at 
the  beach  ;  a  time  which,  they  all  agreed,  was 
simply  grand.  They  walked  to  and  fro  along  the 
shore,  and  went  in  for  a  bath,  and  ate  a  capital 
dinner,  and  enjoyed  the  music,  and  met  lots  of 
their  friends,  and  laughed  and  talked  till  their  sides 
ached,  and  their  throats  were  sore.  Mrs.  Blum,  in 
her  bathing  costume,  was  the  butt  of  many  innocent 
jokes.  Her  husband  said  she  resembled  a  blaidder. 
Elias  had  to  think  hard,  before  he  caught  the 
idea,  and  recognized  its  force.  They  returned  to 
the  city  by  the  boat  ;  and,  having  reached  the  Bat- 
tery, Mr.  Blum  gave  expression  to  the  universal 
sentiment  when  he  declared,  "  Vail,  dot  sail  up  the 


232  THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH, 

Bay,  dot  was  maiknificent,  dot  was  perfectly 
immense." 

"  Come  over  soon  now,  won't  you,  Mr.  Bach- 
arach  ?  "  Mrs.  Morgenthau  asked,  as  Elias  was  tear- 
ing himself  away. 

**  Yes,  do,"  chimed  in  Miss  Tillie. 

And  he  promised  that  he  would. 

He  redeemed  his  promise  about  a  week  later. 
Tillie  played  to  him  to  his  heart's  content,  and 
afterward   she  amused  him  with  her  conversation. 

On  his  way  home,  "  She's  a  good  little  thing,"  he 
soliloquized  ;  "  thoroughly  well-meaning  and  kind- 
hearted.  Crude,  of  course,  and  uncultivated  ;  but 
a  fellow  must  make  allowances  for  that  sort  of 
thing.  She  has  plenty  of  mother-wit  ;  and  her  dash 
— her  abundance  of  animal  spirits — it — it's  posi- 
tively stimulating.  Then  she  plays — well,  her 
playing  is  marvelous,  masterly — such  execution — 
such  expression — really,  no  praise  could  do  justice 
to  her  playing.  And  she's  not  at  all  bad-looking, 
either." 

He  called  pretty  soon  again  ;  and  after  that  he 
got  into  the  habit  of  calling  regularly  at  frequent 
intervals.  He  was  invariably  welcomed  with  ex- 
ceeding warmth,  and  treated  with  a  certain  defer- 
ence that  no  doubt  tickled  his  vanity.  Besides,  a 
bay-window  overlooking  the  East  River  is  a  pleas- 
ant place  to  spend  a  hot  summer's  night.  And 
Tillie's  music,  it  was  worth  traveling  miles  to  hear. 

In  his  hours  of  solitude  he  led  a  very  useless  and 
meaningless  existence.     He  did  not  paint  much  ; 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  233 

and  when  he  did,  his  occupation  proved  neither 
profitable  nor  enjoyable.  He  read  a  good  many 
light  novels  ;  he  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  seated 
at  his  studio  window,  gazing  off  across  the  tree- 
tops,  and  lapsing  into  a  state  of  mental  vacuity, 
that  approached  as  near  to  total  unconsciousness  as 
is  compatible  with  sustained  animation.  He  even 
went  to  the  theater  now  and  then,  escorting  Tillie 
and  her  mother.  To  Mrs.  Morgenthau  he  had 
taken  a  genuine  liking.  There  was  something  so 
hearty  and  vigorous  about  her,  something  almost 
manly.  His  palate  w^as  dulled.  He  craved  strong 
flavors. 

"  They're  going  to  the  country  before  long, 
aren't  they  ?  "  the  rabbi  asked  one  day. 

"  Yes  ;  the  first  week  in  July." 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  we  ought  to  have  them  to 
dinner,  before  they  go  ?  " 

**  That  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,"  confessed  Elias. 

And  on  the  following  Sunday  to  dinner  they  all 
came. 

Mr.  Koch  expatiated  in  his  oratorical  style  upon 
the  charms  of  the  Catskills  ;  and  the  others  unani- 
mously joined  him  in  urging  Elias  and  the  rabbi  to 
"  come  along."  The  rabbi  replied  that  he  positively 
couldn't.  His  professional  duties  were  such  as  to 
compel  him  to  remain  in  town. 

"  But  there's  no  reason  why^w^  shouldn't,"  he 
concluded,  turning  to  his  nephew ;  "  and  I  think 
decidedly  you'd  better." 

At  this,  they  concentrated  their  fire  upon  Elias  ; 


234  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

and  in  the  end,  he  said,  well,  perhaps  he  would  run 
up  for  a  week  or  two  some  time  in  August. 

But  he  did  not  wait  till  August.  After  they  were 
gone,  he  found  the  city  intolerably  dull.  What  to 
do  with  himself,  how  to  divert  himself,  where  to 
seek  a  substitute  for  the  excitement  that  thev  had 
afforded  him,  he  did  not  know.  He  began  to  realize 
that  he  had  grown  very  dependent  upon  their 
society  ;  likewise,  that  he  possessed  but  very  few 
and  feeble  resources  within  himself.  He  did  not 
like  this.  It  damaged  his  self-esteem.  But  he 
could  not  deny  it,  he  could  not  get  the  better  of  it. 
He  craved  the  sound  of  their  voices  ;  he  craved 
Tillie's  music  ;  he  craved  the  exuberant  friendliness 
with  which  they  treated  him.  The  idleness,  the 
monotony,  the  insipidity,  of  his  daily  life  in  the 
city,  he  could  not  endure.  In  the  copious  leisure 
that  it  left  him,  he  would  sometimes — despite  his 
customary  inanition — he  would  sometimes  fall  to 
thinking  ;  and  when  he  thought,  he  did  not  admire 
himself ;  he  even  sluggishly  despised  himself  ;  a 
sense  of  his  uselessness  bore  in  upon  him  ;  he  was 
anxious  to  escape  himself.  So,  toward  the  middle 
of  July,  he  packed  his  trunk,  and  went  to  Tanners- 
town.  He  had  said  that  he  would  run  up  for  a 
week  or  two.  But  he  did  not  return  to  New  York 
until  the  others  did  so,  early  in  September. 

He  and  Tillie  were  together  a  great  deal.  They 
sat  next  to  each  other  at  table.  In  the  day- 
time they  would  take  walks  together,  or  lounge  to- 
gether about  the  piazza  of  the  hotel,  or  play  croquet 


THE    YOKE   OF  THE    ^iHORAH.  235 

together  ;  or,  haply,  she  would  lie  in  a  hammock, 
while  he  read  to  her,  or  sketched  her.  In  the  even- 
ing, if  there  was  dancing,  they  would  dance  to- 
gether ;  for  she  had  taught  him  to  dance.  Or, 
perhaps,  they  would  go  together  for  a  stroll 
by  moonlight,  or  again  sit  together  on  the  piazza  in 
the  dark.  He  liked  her  very  much  indeed.  On 
closer  acquaintance,  her  crudity  became  less  con- 
spicuous. Either  he  got  accustomed  to  it,  or  it 
was  eclipsed  by  her  many  and  sterling  virtues. 
She  was  a  paragon  of  unselfishness — always  doing 
something  for  somebody,  always  giving  up  some- 
thing that  somebody  else  might  enjoy  it.  When 
they  went  for  a  drive,  Tillie  always  took  the  least 
desirable  seat.  When  there  was  an  errand  to  be 
run,  Tillie  always  ran  it.  When  a  letter  had  to  be  car- 
ied  to  the  post,  Tillie  always  carried  it.  Etc.,  etc. 
Her  attitude  toward  her  mother  struck  Elias  as  es- 
pecially fine.  Such  filial  respect,  solicitude,  obedi- 
ence, unwearying  devotion,  he  had  never  witnessed 
before.  She  was  constantly  looking  after  her  moth- 
er's comfort,  fetching  and  carrying  for  her  mother, 
doing  for  her  mother.  If  a  pretty  fan  were  for  sale 
in  the  village,  she  must  purchase  it  for  mamma.  If 
there  were  pretty  wild  flowers  growing  along  the 
road-side,  she  must  gather  them  for  mamma.  If 
mamma  breathed  a  wish,  Tillie  would  devote  hours,  if 
need  were,  to  the  execution  of  it.  For  hours,  if  mamma 
had  a  head-ache,  Tillie  would  stand  upon  her  feet, 
stroking  mamma's  forehead.  Her  mother  appeared 
to  be  her  passion,  almost  her  religion.     And  how 


23^  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH, 

could  Elias  help  admiring  such  a  model  daughter  ? 
And  then,  her  music,  and  her  pretty  face.  Could 
anybody  play  like  that,  could  anybody  possess  such 
bright  blue  eyes,  and  not  have  a  gentle  soul,  even  a 
spark  of  divinity,  glowing  beneath  the  surface  ? 
What  mattered  faulty  grammar,  or  too  robust  a 
voice?  On  the  whole,  he  told  himself,  he  had  a 
genuine  affection  for  Tillie.  She  was  a  rough 
diamond  ;  rough,  but  susceptible  of  the  highest 
degree  of  polish.  She  only  needed  time  and  refin- 
ing influences,  to  make  a  charming  lady.  He  liked 
her  very  much  indeed,  with  a  patronizing,  brotherly 
sort  of  liking.  What  her  sentiment  for  him  might 
be,  he  never  thought  to  ask  himself,  but  tacitly 
assumed  that  it  was  one  of  cordial  friendliness, 

Mr.  Koch  and  Mr.  Sternberg  staid  but  a  fort- 
night apiece.  Mr.  Blum,  the  ladies,  and  Elias, 
staid  till  the  beginning  of  September  ;  when  they 
all  came  back  to  town  in  company.  Elias  then 
resumed  his  frequent  visiting  in  Beekman  Place. 

One  evening  after  dinner  the  rabbi  asked  Elias 
to  step  into  his  study. 

"  I  had  a  call  from  Mr.  Koch  this  afternoon," 
the  rabbi  said. 

"Ah?"  returned  Elias. 

"  Yes.     He  stopped  in  on  his  way  up-town." 

"  That  so  ?     Any  thing  special  ?  " 

"Well,  yes.  That's  why  I  wanted  to  see  you, 
now.  He  spoke  about  you."  Emphasis  on  the  "you." 

"  About  me  ?  Indeed  ?  Why,  what  could  he 
have  had  to  say  about  me  ? " 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  237 

"  Well,  he  thought  it  was  strange  that  you  didn't 
come  to  see  him,  and  wanted  to  know  why  you  were 
holding  off." 

''  Come  to  see  him  ?  Why,  I  went  to  see  him  only 
last  week.  Holding  off  ?  I  don't  know  what  he 
can  mean." 

"  No,  no.  You  don't  understand.  He  meant 
about  declaring  your  intentions." 

"  What  intentions  ?  Intentions  ?  I  don't  know 
what  you're  driving  at,  I'm  sure." 

"  Why,  your  intentions  in  respect  to  his  niece,  of 
course." 

"  My  intentions  in  respect — Mercy  !  "  gasped 
Elias,  with  honest  astonishment,  as  the  idea  sud- 
denly dawned  upon  him.  "  You  don't  mean  to 
say  that — that  he  imagines — that — that  I — Good 
Lord  !  " 

"  Why,  certainly,"  said  the  rabbi.  "  How  could 
he  help  it  ?  You  haven't  taken  Washington  I.  Koch 
for  a  fool,  I  hope.  Besides,  your  attentions  have 
been  so  very  marked,  that  no  great  penetration 
was  necessary.  /  'w  not  much  at  that  sort  of  thing, 
but  even  I  saw  through  them  long  ago.  In  fact, 
no  man  with  half  an  eye  open  could  have  failed  to 
do  so." 

*'  Merciful  Powers  !  "  exclaimed  Elias,  and  sat 
dumb. 

*'  There's  no  use  making  so  much  ado  about  it, 
either,"  pursued  the  rabbi.  "  It  was  bound  to  come 
out,  you  know,  sooner  or  later  ;  and,  at  any  rate, 
you  have  no  reason  for  feeling  ashamed  of  it." 


23^  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

"But— "began  Elias. 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say.  I  dare  say,  it's  a  little  embar- 
rassing. That's  not  unnatural.  But  then,  you 
couldn't  have  kept  it  a  secret  forever.  By  its  very 
nature,  it  was  bound  to  come  out." 

"But,"  Elias  began  anew,  "but  it's  not  true. 
It's  the  most  preposterous  mistake  I  ever  heard  of. 
I  never  had  any  such  idea,  never  dreamed  of  hav- 
ing any  such  idea.  Intentions  !  Why,  I  always 
thought  of  her  as — as  scarcely  more  than  a  child. 
I  don't  see  how  anybody  could  have  made  such  a 
stupid,  ridiculous  blunder.  Well,  I  did  give  Mr. 
Koch  credit  for  more  intelligence." 

"  Elias,"  demanded  the  rabbi,  with  very  great 
seriousness,  *'  are  you  in  earnest,  or  is  this  a 
comedy  ? " 

"A  comedy?  I  tell  you  it's  outrageous.  I  never 
was  more  in  earnest  in  my  life." 

"  And  I  am  to  understand  that  you  have  made 
Miss  Morgenthau  the  object  of  your  particu- 
lar attentions — as  you  can't  deny  you  have  done — 
and  in  that  way  have  necessarily  endeared  yourself 
more  or  less  to  her — I  am  to  understand  that  you 
have  deliberately  done  this,  without  meaning  eventu- 
ally to  make  her  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Particular  attentions  !  I've  paid  her  no  particu- 
lar attentions.  I  took  a  friendly  interest  in  the 
girl,  and  behaved  toward  her  in  a  friendly  way. 
My  wife  !  The  notion  never  entered  my  head — 
nor  hers,  either,  I'll  venture  to  say." 

"  I  can  hardly  believe  it,"  said  the  rabbi,  shaking 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  259 

his  head  incredulously.  "  I  don't  like  to  believe 
it.  I  don't  like  to  believe  you  capable  of — of 
such—" 

"  Such  what  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  Is  it  my 
fault,  if  people  jump  to  false  conclusions  ?  Am  I 
to  blame  for  their  lack  of  sense  ?  Can't  a  young 
man  be  ordinarily  polite  and  decent  to  a  young 
girl,  without  every  body  fancying  that  he  is  spoony 
over  her  ?  " 

"  No,  he  can^t  ;  not  if  you  call  it  ordinarily  polite 
and  decent  to  visit  a  young  lady  regularly  every 
week  or  so,  and  spend  a  couple  of  months  at  her 
side  in  the  country.  From  that  sort  of  politeness 
and  decency,  her  parents  always  infer  that  he 
means  matrimony.  It  gives  the  same  impression  to 
society,  also,  and  frightens  other  young  men 
away." 

"  Well,"  groaned  Elias,  *'  I  suppose  it's  needless 
for  me  to  say  I'm  sorr}^  I  am  sorry  ;  but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  If  I  had  at  all  foreseen — 
But  what's  the  use  of  iffing  ?  Now  that  you  have 
opened  my  eyes,  I'll  stop  visiting  her.  That's  at 
once  the  least  and  most  I  can  do.  Well,  I'm  glad 
it  went  no  further.  So  far,  at  any  rate,  no  harm 
has  been  done." 

"  No  harm  done  !  Well,  I  must  say,  your  com- 
placency astounds  me.  No  harm  done  !  You — 
you  get  a  young  girl's  expectations  all  aroused — 
get  her  heart  set  on  you — get  her  and  her  family  to 
taking  for  granted  that  you  want  to  marry  her — get 
the  whole  world  to  talking  about  her  as  your  sweet- 


240  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAff, 

heart— and  then  coolly  dismiss   the  matter  with  a 
No  harm  done  !     No  harm  done,  forsooth  !  " 

"  Oh,  come,"  protested  Elias  ;  ''  you  exaggerate. 
It's  not  so  bad  as  all  that.  Whatever  you  and  her 
uncle  and  the  others  may  have  suspected,  she  never 
misconstrued  my  feeling  for  her.  She  has  too 
much  good  sense.  Why,  I  never  spoke  a  word  to 
her  that  could,  by  torturing  it  even,  be  interpreted 
as  any  thing  more  than  friendly.  As  for  her  heart 
being  set  upon  me,  and  her  expectations  aroused, 
that's  rubbish,  pure, and  simple  rubbish." 

"  Is  it,  though  ?  "  retorted  the  rabbi.  "  Her  uncle 
didn't  seem  to  think  so." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  cried  Elias. 
"  I  mean  that  Mr.  Koch  gave  me  to  understand 
that  Miss  Morgenthau  is  in  love  with  you." 

"  Gave  you  to  understand  ?  Oh,  you  w/Vunder- 
stood." 

"  I  could  scarcely  have  done  that  He  told  me 
so  in  just  so  many  words." 

*'  Well,  then,  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  talking 
about." 

"  Perhaps  not  ;  but  he  had  it  directly  from  Mrs. 
Morgenthau.  When  he  asked  why  you  didn't  pop 
the  question,  I  said  it  might  be  that  you  were 
doubtful  about  what  kind  of  an  answer  you'd  get. 
Then  he  assured  me  that  you  could  set  your  mind 
at  rest  on  that  score,  for  Mrs.  Morgenthau 
had  told  him  that  Tillie  thought  all  the  world  of 
you.  The  young  girl  has  confided  in  her  mother, 
as  a  young  girl  should." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  241 

"  Oh,  this  is  horrible  ! "  Elias  gasped. 

"  Yes,  horrible  ;  I  think  that's  the  right  name 
for  it,  if  what  you  say  about  your  own  feeling  is 
true.  If  you  don't  mean  to  marry  her,  I  can't  see 
how  it  could  be  much  worse.  But  now,  honestly, 
are  you  sure  you  don't  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  tell  you,  I  never  thought  of  such  a 
thing — never  dreamed  of  it." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  too  late  to  think  of  it,  even  now. 
It's  a  fine  chance.  I  advise  you  to  consider  a  little 
before  you  throw  it  away.  She'd  make  you  an  ex- 
cellent wife,  and  bring  a  snug  sum  of  money  with 
her.  Mr.  Koch  mentioned  something  like  twenty 
thousand  dollars.  You  can  have  her  for  the  ask- 
ing.    Such  an  opportunity  may  never  occur  again." 

*'  You  speak  as  though  it  were  a  bargain — just  as 
I  should  expect  Mr.  Blum  to  speak  of  what  he  calls 
a  chop-lot.  You  don't  suppose  I  want  her  twenty 
thousand  dollars  ?  I  have  more  money  than  I've 
any  right  to,  already  ;  I,  who  do  nothing  to  earn 
any.  I  think  it  ought  to  settle  the  question,  when 
I  say  I  don't  love  the  girl." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  love  ?  " 

"  What  is  generally  meant  by  love  ?  I  mean 
that  I  don't  care  for  her  in  any  way  except  a 
friendly  one." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  mean  by  friendly  ?  " 

*'  I  mean  that  I  like  her — just  as  a  fellow  might 
like  his  sister." 

"You  make  a  distinction  without  a  difference. 
Or  rather,  no  ;  the  difference  is  against  you.     Love, 


242  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

in  the  sense  in  which  you  use  the  word,  isn't  what's 
wanted.  A  strong  liking,  an  affection,  is  more  to 
the  point.  I  was  struck  the  other  day,  when  look- 
ing in  the  dictionary,  to  find,  among  its  other  defi- 
nitions, love  defined  as  a  '  thin  silk  stuff.'  Well, 
affection  is  a  stout  woolen  fabric.  For  matrimonial 
purposes,  for  da^ly  wear  and  tear,  the  latter  is  by 
far  the  better." 

"  There's  room  for  two  opinions  about  that.  I 
may  be  allowed  to  have  my  own." 

"  Certainly  ;  though  your  opinion  would  coincide 
with  mine,  if  you  were  wiser.  But  let  us  confine 
ourselves  to  the  practical  aspects  of  the  case.  You 
say  you  like  the  young  lady  very  much  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but—" 

"  Not  so  fast.  Now,  if  you  like  her  very  much, 
would  you  not  wish,  if  possible,  to  spare  her  the 
pain  and  the  mortification  of  having  her  hopes  in 
your  regard  disappointed  ?  " 

"  If  possible,  of  course.     But  it  isn't  possible." 

"  One  moment.  Now,  don't  you  think  she's  a 
very  estimable  young  woman  ?  Don't  you  think 
the  man  who  got  her  for  his  wife  would  be  a  for- 
tunate fellow  ?  " 

"  Other  things  equal — that  is,  if  he  loved  her — 
yes,  I  think  so." 

"  Well  and  good.  Then  what  I  want  you  to  con- 
sider is  this.  In  the  first  place,  here  is  a  young 
lady,  whom  you  like  very  much,  ready  and  willing 
to  become  your  wife.  You've  got  to  take  her  or 
leave  her.     Unless  you  profit  by  your  chances,  and 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  243 

secure  her  now,  you'll  have  to  give  her  up  alto- 
gether, and  lose  her  for  good.  In  the  second  place 
— -whether  intentionally  or  unintentionally  doesn't 
matter — you  have,  by  your  assiduous  devotion, 
contrived  to  win  her  love,  and  to  cause  her  and  her 
family  to  expect  that  you  were  going  to  ask  for  her 
hand  in  marriage.  Consequently,  in  the  event, 
of  your  now  abruptly  breaking  oft  with  her^  and 
discontinuing  your  visits,  you  will  occasion  the 
young  lady  herself  much  unmerited  grief  and  humil- 
iation, you'll  set  busy-bodies  far  and  wide  to  gossip- 
ing, and  you'll  bring  no  end  of  odium  down  upon 
yourself.  Consider  these  things,  and  you'll  see 
that  you've  got  yourself  into  a  very  unpleasant 
situation,  a  very  tight  fix.  There's  only  one  v/ay 
out  of  it  ;  but  that  way  is  strewn  with  roses.  Mat- 
rimony !  Marry  her  !  Why,  if  I  were  in  your  place, 
I  shouldn't  hesitate  an  instant." 

"  If  you  were  in  my  place,  I  don't  think  you'd 
know  what  to  do." 

"  If  I  were  in  your  place,  I  should  congratulate 
myself.  I  should  be  thankful  for  my  tremendous 
good-luck,  in  winning  such  a  wife.  Tillie  Morgen- 
thau  is  a  jewel,  if  there  ever  was  one.  She  has 
certain  peculiarities  of  manner,  I  admit ;  but  six 
months  of  intimate  association  with  you,  would 
tone  them  down  to  nothing.  She's  as  pretty  as  a 
picture  ;  she  plays  wonderfully  ;  and  her  character 
is  pure  gold.  Just  think,  boy,  that  this  prize  is 
within  your  grasp  !  Then,  besides,  you  ought  to 
get  married,  anyhow.     Such  an  opportunity  comes 


244  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

but  once  in  a  lifetime.     I'm  an  old  man  ;  and  I 
know  what  I'm  talking  about." 

*'  That  may  be  ;  but  that  makes  no  difference,.  I 
simply  repeat,  I  don't  love  her,  I'm  not  in  love  with 
her.  I  shall  never  be  in  love  with  any  body.  My 
capacity  for  loving  has  been  exhausted.  I  shaii 
remain  a  bachelor  all  my  life." 

"  Oh,  you  try  my  patience.  Your  talk  is  silly. 
Your  head  is  full  of  romantic  notions,  like  a  school- 
girl's. Remain  a  bachelor  !  Don't  you  know  that 
every  man  is  required  by  our  religion  to  marry  and 
bring  up  a  family  ?  Love  ?  Gammon  !  Love 
marriages  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  are  unhappy. 
Hundreds,  thousands,  of  better  men  than  you,  nave 
married  without  the  sickish  sentiment  which  you 
call  love  ;  and  happier  marriages  were  never  made. 
I  tell  you,  if  you  don't  marry  Miss  Tillie  Morgen- 
thau,  you'll  live  to  repent  it  bitterly.  Think  of 
how  she  would  brighten  up  this  gloomy  old  house. 
Think  of  the  children.  Think — Oh,  you're  throw- 
ing away  the  flower  of  your  life.  The  Lord — yes, 
sir — the  Lord  God  of  Israel  has  put  this  woman  in 
your  path  ;  and  you,  with  your  imbecile  delusions 
about  love,  see  fit  to  spurn  her  !  " 

Elias  held  his  peace. 

By  and  by,  "  Well  ? "  questioned  the  rabbi. 

"  Well,  what  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Have  you 
thought  better  of  it  ?" 

*'  I  am  still  of  the  same  mind." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  245 

"  You  still  mean  to  fly  in  the  face  of  Provi- 
dence ? " 

'^  Well,  if  it  pleases  you  to  phrase  it  that  way, 
yes." 

"And  your  knowledge  of  the  wound  you  are 
going  to  inflict  upon  Miss  Tillie — you  don't  flinch, 
you  don't  falter  a  little,  at  that  ?  " 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  I  can't  help  it.  I — I  sup- 
pose I  was  born  to  cause  sorrow  in  the  world.  I 
have  already  spoiled  the  life  of  one  young  girl. 
Now,  it  looks  as  though  I  were  in  a  fair  way  to 
spoil  the  life  of  another." 

"  Elias,  the  two  affairs  ought  not  to  be  mentioned 
in  the  same  breath.  In  that  one,  you  weren't  re- 
sponsible. In  this,  you  are.  Being  responsible, 
and  seeing  your  duty  plain  before  you,  I  don't 
understand  how  you  can  hesitate.  Don't  you  real- 
ize what  you  have  done  ?  You  have  gone  to  work 
and  compromised  this  young  girl  ;  yes,  sir,  compro- 
ffiised  her.  And  having  done  that,  you  are  bound 
in  common  honor  to  marry  her.  Why,  sir,  through- 
out this  city,  in  every  Jewish  family  in  this  city,  if 
you  don't  marry  her,  she'll  be  talked  about.  Think 
of  that.  Furthermore,  I  tell  you,  it's  the  will  of 
the  Lord.  If  you  don't  marry  her,  the  Lord  will 
punish  you.  You'd  better  consider  a  little.  You'd 
better  think  twice,  before  you  determine  in  cold 
blood  to  break  this  young  girl's  heart,  and  make 
her  name  a  by-word  among  gossips,  and  defy  the 
will  of  the  Lord  our  God.  It's  a  fearful  responsi- 
bility." 


24<5  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH, 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  that.  I  know  that.  It 
couldn't  be  worse.  I  should  very  gladly  marry  her, 
or  do  any  thing  else,  to  mend  matters,  to  repair  the 
mischief  which,  it  seems,  I  have  wrought  ;  only,  I 
can't  believe  that  it  is  right  to  marry  without  love. 
If,  as  you  say,  it  is  the  will  of  the  Lord,  why  hasn't 
the  Lord  made  me  love  her  ?  " 

"  He  has  made  you  love  her — with  the  best  sort 
of  love — with  a  genuine,  strong  affection.  If  you 
don't  feel  a  flimsy,  volatile  passion  for  her,  it  is  be- 
cause that  isn't  the  thing  that's  needed  in  marriage. 
Who's  the  better  judge  of  right  and  wrong,  who's 
the  better  qualified  to  interpret  the  will  of  God,  you 
or  I  ?  You'd  do  well  to  call  to  mind  how  once 
before  I  warned  you,  and  you  chose  to  make  light 
of  my  warning  ;  and  then,  what  happened  ?  Now, 
here  is  my  last  word.  You  marry  Miss  Morgen- 
thau,  or  you'll  regret  it  to  your  dying  day." 

After  a  long  pause,  "Well,"  said  Elias,  *'I'll 
think  about  it." 

''You'll  have  to  think  quickly,"  rejoined  the 
rabbi  ;  "  for  I  promised  Mr.  Koch  that  he  should 
hear  from  you  by  to-morrow  evening  at  the  latest." 

''  Oh,  you  ought  to  have  allowed  me  more  time 
than  that.     I  really  need  more  time  than  that." 

"  Time  ?  What  do  you  want  time  for  ?  Are 
you  absolutely  lacking  in  decision  of  character  ? 
Why,  in  a  case  like  this,  a  man,  who  is  a  man, 
ought  to  say  yes  or  no  on  the  spot.  There's  noth- 
ing  that  needs  deliberation.  You  have  to  make  the 
simplest  kind    of    a  choice,  the  easiest    possible 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  247 

choice.  You  have  to  choose  between  obvious,  pal- 
pable right,  and  obvious,  palpable  wrong.  If  you 
took  a  year  to  think  about  it,  the  matter  would 
still  stand  precisely  as  it  stands  to-day.  I'm  sur- 
prised at  you — surprised  that  you  can  hesitate  a 
minute." 

"  Well,  if  you  object  to  my  taking  time,  then  the 
only  thing  left  for  me  to  do,  is  to  repeat  what  I've 
said  already." 

"  That  you  won't  marry  her  ? " 

"  If  I've  got  to  decide  instantly,  on  the  spot, 
yes." 

"  Well,  then,  take  time  ;  and  much  good  may  it 
do  you.  We'll  talk  about  this  again  to-morrow.  I 
hope  meanwhile  the  Lord  may  enlighten  you,  and 
move  your  stubborn  spirit.     Now,  good-night." 

When  they  met  at  breakfast  next  morning. 
"Well,"  began  the  rabbi,  "  have  you  thought  about 
it?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Elias,  "  I  have  thought  about  it 
— all  night  long." 

"  Contrived  to  make  up  your  mind  ?  *' 

"Yes,  I  have  made  up  my  mind." 

The  rabbi's  pale  skin  turned  a  shade  paler.  He 
waited  a  little,  before  asking,  "  Well  ?  "  His  voice 
was  faint  and  tremulous. 

"  Well,"  said  Elias,  "  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  do  as  you  wish — to  call  upon  ]\Ir.  Koch  this 
evening,  and  do  as  you  wish." 

The    rabbi  jumped  up  from   his  seat,  grasped 


248     THE    YOKE  OF  THE   THORAH, 

Elias's  hand,  wrung  it  fervently,  and  cried,  "  It  is 
the  will  of  the  Lord  !     The  Lord  be  praised  !  " 

Elias  held  his  tongue.  He  was  looking  very 
grave  this  morning. 

*'  Oh,  but  you  have  lifted  a  load  from  off  my 
spirit,"  pursued  the  rabbi,  returning  to  his  place. 
"At  last  I  shall  be  contented.  If  only  your  mother 
might  have  lived  to  enjoy  this  day  !  " 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  pleased,"  said  Elias. 

"  But  tell  me,  bo}^,  tell  me  all  about  it.  What 
finally  decided  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  it's  a  long  story.  It  wouldn't  interest 
you." 

"On  the  contrary,  I'm  most  anxious  to  hear  it. 
Go  on.     Out  with  it.     Come." 

"  AVell,  it  isn't  very  exciting.  It's  simply  this.  I 
have  tried  to  be  honest,  and  to  get  at  the  real 
truth.  I  have  tried  to  analyze  and  comprehend  my 
own  feelings,  and  to  look  the  circumstances  squarely 
in  the  face.  The  result  is,  I  believe  that  you  are 
right — that  I  have  more  or  less  seriously  compro- 
mised her,  and  am  bound  in  duty,  therefore,  to 
marry  her,  if  she  wants  me  to.  I  don't  think  I  am 
swayed  by  any  selfish  motive.  I  think  my  desire 
to  act  honorably,  to  do  the  right  thing,  is  sincere 
and  genuine.  The  prospect  of  having  her  for  my 
wife  gives  me  no  pleasure  at  all.  I  must  confess 
that  it  is  no  longer  repugnant  to  me,  either.  It 
awakes  no  emotion  of  any  kind.  It  leaves  me 
totally  indifferent.  This  evening,  as  I  say,  I  shall 
propose  for  her  hand.     If,  as  you  expect,  I  am  ac- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  249 

cepted,  well  and  good.  If  I  should  be  rejected, 
equally  well  and  good.  I  shall  neither  be  pleased 
nor  disappointed,  in  the  one  event  or  in  the  other. 
The  long  and  short  of  the  business  is,  that  I  never 
hope  to  be  happy  in  this  world  ;  nor  to  be  much  of 
any  thing,  except  listless  and  sluggish.  I've  used 
up  my  share  of  happiness,  already.  So  far  as  I  can 
see,  I'm  utterly  good-for-nothing,  besides.  I 
have  already  caused  plenty  of  misery.  If,  by  mar- 
rying this  young  girl,  I  can  keep  from  causing  any 
more,  and  perhaps  even  become  the  means  of  a  lit- 
tle positive  happiness — why,  I  can't  think  of  any 
better  use  to  which  to  put  myself.  I  dare  say  I 
shall  be  able  to  make  her  a  tolerable  husband,  as 
husbands  go.  I  shall  try  to,  any  how.  It's  a  pity  I 
was  ever  born  ;  but  that  can't  be  helped  at  this 
late  date.  If  I  could  be  quietly  annihilated,  wiped 
out  of  existence,  I  think  that  would  be  the  best 
thing  all  around  ;  but  I  haven't  the  courage  to  do 
away  with  myself.  So,  as  long  as  I've  got  to  go  on 
cumbering  the  face  of  the  earth,  when  I  see  a 
chance  to  render  myself  comparatively  inoffensive, 
it  seems  as  though  I'd  better  seize  it  and  improve 
it." 

*'  Elias,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  I  don't  know  whether  to 
scold  you,  or  to  laugh  at  you.  You're  morbid,  abom- 
inably morbid.  This  marriage  is  exactly  what  you 
need,  to  brace  you  up,  and  put  a  little  health  into 
you.  You  talk  like  a  French  novel.  You  have  cut 
open  your  doll,  and  found  it  stuffed  with  saw-dust. 
Poor,  pessimistic  fellow !      Bah  !     I  shall  neither 


250  THE   YOKE  OF  THE  THORAH. 

scold  you,  nor  laugh  at  you.  I  shall  congratulate 
you.  And  in  a  few  months  now,  I  shall  have  the 
satisfaction,  in  my  professional  capacity,  of  pro- 
nouncing you  the  happiest  of  husbands." 

''  If  I  talk  like  a  French  novel,"  returned  Elias, 
"  I  talk,  at  least,  as  I  feel.  I  mean  every  word  I 
say.  The  one  conviction  that  abides  with  me  all 
the  time,  lies  heavily  upon  my  conscience  day  and 
night,  is  the  conviction  of  my  utter  uselessness  and 
worthlessness  in  the  world.  Why,  the  cook  in  our 
kitchen,  the  man  who  looks  after  our  furnace,  does 
more  practical  good,  has  a  better  claim  to  his  bread 
and  butter,  than  I.  I  have  lived  twenty-seven 
years.  All  that  I  have  been  able  to  accomplish  in 
all  that  time,  is  the  irretrievable  ruin  of  an  innocent 
young  girl's  life.  That's  the  one  ponderable  re- 
sult of  my  twenty-seven  years'  existence — the  one 
thing  I've  got  to  show  for  it." 

"  And  your  pictures  ?  Do  your  pictures  count 
for  nothing  ? " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Elias,  with  a  sudden  outburst  of 
passion,  "  don't  talk  to  me  of  my  pictures.  I 
should  like  to  burn  every  stitch  of  canvas  that  I 
have  ever  put  my  hand  to,  and  spoiled  for  better 
purposes.  I  have  burned  all  that  remained  in  my 
possession.  As  long  as  I  live,  I  shall  never  touch 
a  brush  again." 

From  which  it  would  appear  that  our  hero  had 
wrought  himself  into  a  very  unenviable  frame  of 
mind. 

To  narrate  at  length  what  followed  would  be  mel- 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH,  251 

ancholy  ;  and  it  would  be  superfluous.  Tillie  and 
Eiias  became  engaged.  Their  engagement  was  cele- 
brated by  three  redoubtable  dinners — one  at  the 
Sternbergs',  one  at  the  Kochs',  and  one  at  the 
dark  house  on  Stuy  vesant  Park.  Their  wedding  was 
set  down  for  the  following  January.  Then,  accord- 
ing to  the  regular  Jewish  custom,  for  three  succes- 
sive Sunday  afternoons,  they  were  ''  at  home"  at  the 
residence  of  the  prospective  bride.  Hither  flocked 
scores,  even  hundreds,  of  their  friends,  and  offered 
their  congratulations — their  friends,  and  their 
friends'  friends,  and  the  friends  of  all  relatives 
and  connections,  far  and  near.  Much  wine  was 
drunken  at  these  receptions,  much  cheese-cake  eaten, 
much  tobacco  smoked  ;  and  oh,  what  a  quantity  of 
talk,  in  what  a  variety  of  accents,  from  best  to  worst, 
roused  cacophonic  echoes  in  the  walls  and  ceiling  ! 
Among  our  New  York  Jews,  it  may  be  said  with 
material  literalness,  a  subtle  chain  of  countless 
rings  the  next  unto  the  farthest  brings.  If  one  had 
wished  to  obtain  a  bird's-eye-view  of  the  metro- 
politan Jewish  world,  to  behold  in  indiscriminate 
procession  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  Jews  and 
Jewesses,  one  could  not  have  done  better  than 
arrive  early  and  remain  till  the  end  of  one  of  these 
Sunday  afternoons.  Old  and  young,  good  and 
bad,  wise  and  foolish,  rich  and  poor,  savage  and 
civilized  ;  fat  Jews  and  lean  Jews,  shabby  Jews  and 
shoddy  Jews,  gentlemanly  Jews  and  rowdy  Jews  ; 
petty  tradesmen,  banker  princes,  college  professors, 
commercial    travelers,    doctors,  lawyers,  students, 


252  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH 

musicians  :  all  came,  accompanied  by  their  wives 
and  their  children,  their  parents,  and  their  parents- 
in-law,  and  their  brothers  and  sisters-in-law,  to  add 
their  quota  to  the  great  jubilation.  x\nd  such  a 
lot  of  hand-shaking  as  there  was  transacted  among 
them,  to  be  sure  ;  for,  at  a  congratulation-party  of 
this  description,  you  must  not  only  shake  hands  with 
the  betrothed  couple  and  their  immediate  family, 
but  likewise  with  each  of  your  fellow-guests,  pro- 
nouncing, as  you  do  so,  the  shibboleth  :  "  Con- 
gratulate you,"  or,  ''  Gratulire."  Then,  as  has 
been  said,  there  was  an  unceasing  flow  of  wine, 
tobacco  smoke,  and  talk  ;  and  the  place  sounded 
like  a  stock  exchange  or  bedlam. 

This  sort  of  thing — sitting  for  joy,  it  is  some- 
times called — may  be  sufficiently  amusing  for  a 
while  ;  but  three  successive  Sundays  of  it  are  rather 
too  much;  and  Elias  and  Tillie  were  both  heartily 
glad  when  at  last  it  was  over. 

Tillie,  all  smiles  and  blushes  and  animation,  was 
the  happiest  of  happy  little  persons.  Over  and 
above  the  generous  settlement  he  was  to  make  for 
her  at  her  marriage,  Mr.  Koch  had  drawn  a  check 
to  her  order  for  no  less  dazzling  a  sum  than  two 
thousand  dollars,  the  proceeds  of  which  she  and 
her  mother  were  now  very  busy  spending  for  her 
trousseau.  Elias  could  not  help  catching  some- 
thing of  her  good  spirits.  He  could  not  remain 
quite  dejected  or  impassive  in  the  presence  of  such 
an  exuberant  joy  as  hers.  He  began  to  be  fonder 
of  her  than  ever,  even,  he  sometimes  told  himself, 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  253 

to  love  her  after  a  fashion  ;  but  it  was  a  neutral, 
passionless  sort  of  love,  and  had  its  source,  not  in 
impulse,  but  in  habit.  He  looked  forward  with  a 
certain  mild  pleasure  to  his  union  with  her,  and  was 
mildly  thankful  that  he  had  followed  the  rabbi's 
counsel.  They  were  not  much  alone  together,  he 
and  she  ;  and  when  they  w^ere,  their  deportment 
was  far  enough  from  lover-like.  He,  indeed,  seldom 
opened  his  mouth,  save  to  answer  a  question,  or  to 
utter  a  sympathetic  oh  or  ah  ;  but  listened  to 
Tillie's  vivacious  descriptions  of  the  dresses  she  was 
having  made,  or  sat  silent  in  the  bay-window,  and 
watched  the  boats  sail  by  on  the  river,  while  she 
played  his  favorite  music  to  him.  He  took  her  and 
her  mother  to  the  theater  as  often  as  either  expressed 
a  desire  to  go,  and  tried  heroically  not  to  yawn 
or  appear  bored.  He  escorted  them,  also,  to  a  good 
many  dancing  parties,  and  dinner  parties,  as  well 
as  to  the  famous  Advance  Club  ball,  where  Tillie 
excited  a  vast  deal  of  admiration  as  an  ear  of  corn, 
and  just  narrowly  missed  the  prize,  getting  instead 
an  honorable  mention. 

Alone,  Elias  persistently  fought  shy  of  himself, 
persistently  shunned  self-communion.  He  dared 
not  open  his  eyes,  and  look  himself  squarely  in  the 
face.  He  knew  that  it  would  not  be  an  inspiriting 
spectacle.  His  studio  he  had  locked  up,  with  the 
resolution  never  to  touch  his  paints  any  more  for- 
ever. He  sought  to  escape  from  himself  in  reading ; 
and,  indeed,  he  read  an  astonishing  multitude  of 
books    upon    an    astonishing    multitude    of    sub- 


254  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

jects.  But  now  and  then,  in  spite  of  his  efforts 
to  be  blind,  the  actual  Elias  Bacharach  would  loom 
up  big  before  him,  in  all  his  ghastly  demoralization; 
and  sick  with  self-'loathing,  he  would  bury  his  face 
in  his  hands,  and  demand  bitterly,  impotently,  why 
he  had  ever  been  born  ?  what  single  earthly  pur- 
pose he  was  good  for  ?  why  he  could  not  be 
abolished  utterly  forthwith  ?  But  these  dark  moods, 
or  lucid  intervals,  were  commonly  of  short  duration. 
He  was  generally  able  to  forget  them  in  a  novel. 
He  watched  his  wedding-day  draw  near  and  nearer, 
without  the  slightest  quickening  of  the  pulse.  As 
I  have  said,  he  took  a  certain  insipid  pleasure  in 
the  thought  of  his  marriage.  He  fancied  it  would 
be  rather  agreeable  than  otherwise  to  have  Tillie  a 
constant  inmate  of  his  house.  She  would  brighten 
it  up,  put  a  little  electricity  into  its  atmosphere,  re- 
lieve the  excessive  tedium  of  life  in  it.  But  this 
pleasure  was  very  mild  indeed  ;  the  languid  pleasure 
that  one  might  experience  at  the  prospect  of  becom- 
ing the  owner  of  a  languidly  admired  vase  or 
piece  of  furniture.  Yes,  he  w^as  glad  enough 
that  it  was  going  to  be  his  ;  but  he  did  not  care 
a  great  deal  one  way  or  the  other  ;  and  as  the  day 
approached  which  was  to  inaugurate  his  proprietor- 
ship, he  felt  no  flutter  of  the  heart,  no  accession  of 
eagerness  or  interest.  Tillie's  excitement,  on  the 
contrary,  intensified  perceptibly.  It  had  the  effect 
of  beautifying  her,  and  of  civilizing  her.  With 
heightened  color  and  brightened  eyes,  she  was  an 
exceedingly  pretty  girl,  one  that  any  man  might 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  255 

have  been  proud  of  for  his  bride.  Then,  she  did 
noftalk  half  so  loudly  as  she  had  used  to  do  ;  and  her 
choice  of  words,  phrases,  and  figures,  underwent  a 
notable  modification  for  the  better.  The  adjec- 
tives, gra?id,  ideal,  elegant,  fearful,  and  such  like, 
for  example,  dropped  almost  entirely  out  of  her 
daily  speech. 

Of  course,  before  long-,  the  wedding-presents  be- 
gan to  come  in.  Tillie's  delight  knew  no  bounds. 
Every  evening  Elias  discovered  her  in  an  ecstasy 
over  the  things  that  had  arrived  that  day,  and  joy- 
fully anticipating  those  that  would  arrive  to-mor- 
row. Some  of  these  presents  made  the  poor  fellow 
groan  inwardly.  Mr.  Blum,  for  instance,  sent  an 
enormous  worsted-work  picture  of  Ruth  and  Boaz, 
with  a  charming,  though  misapplied,  inscription 
cunningly  embroidered  in  gold  thread  :  "■  Whither 
thou  goest,  I  will  go,"  etc.  Elias  knew  that  this 
would  have  to  be  hung  in  a  conspicuous  place  in 
his  house  ;  for,  of  course,  when  Mr.  Blum  came  to 
see  them,  he  would  look  for  it,  and,  if  it  wasn't 
visible,  would  feel  hurt  and  slighted.  Mrs.  Blum 
sent  a  pair  of  diamond  ear-rings.  Tillie  at  once 
put  them  on  ;  and  she  never  afterward  appeared 
without  them  ;  so  that,  from  this  point,  whenever 
she  figures  upon  these  pages,  the  reader  will 
kindly  imagine  a  lustrous  solitaire  pendent  from 
each  of  her  tiny  ears.  They  were  large  and  hand- 
some ;  and  Mr.  Blum  confidentially  informed  Elias 
that  he  had  got  them  at  a  bargain,  but  that  they 
had  coast  him  a  heap  of  money  all  the  same. 


25^  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

Neither  Mr.  Sternberg's  parlors,  nor  Mr.  Koch's, 
were  spacious  enough  to  accommodate  a  tithe  of  the 
people  who  would  have  to  be  invited  to  the  wed- 
ding ;  and  therefore  it  was  decided  to  follow  the 
common  Jewish  practice,  and  engage  for  the  occa- 
sion a  public  hall.  Mr.  Koch  engaged  the  hall  of 
the  Advance  Club. 

There,  accordingly,  in  the  afternoon  of  Monday, 
the  seventh  of  January,  1884,  and  in  the  presence 
of  rather  more  than  three  hundred  witnesses,  Mr. 
Elias  Bacharach  and  Miss  Matilda  J^Iorgenthau 
were  pronounced  irrevocably  man  and  wife  ;  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Gedaza,  assisted  by  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Lewis,  as  cantor,  officiating.  The  ceremonies 
were  conducted  in  the  strictest  orthodox  style. 
The  happy  couple  stood  beneath  a  silken  canopy, 
supported  by  four  young  gentlemen  designated  by 
the  groom  ;  all  the  men  present  covered  their  heads, 
some  with  hats,  some  with  handkerchiefs  ;  the  can- 
tor intoned  an  invocation,  a  prayer,  a  benediction  ; 
the  rabbi  put  the  requisite  questions,  and  got  the 
regulation  responses,  both  in  Hebrew  ;  after  which, 
he  made  a  very  pretty  and  touching  speech,  kissed 
the  bride,  and  said,  *'  Mrs.  Bacharach,  accept  my 
heartiest  congratulations."  The  wine,  meanwhile, 
had  been  spilled  and  drunken,  and  the  goblet 
crushed  under  the  bridegroom's  heel.  For  upwards 
of  an  hour  afterward,  there  was  a  wild  clamor  of 
talk  ;  and  every  body  shook  hands  with  Elias,  and 
gave  Tillie  a  kiss.  Then  they  all  sat  down  to  din- 
ner.     The  chazzan  chanted   a  grace.     The  ban- 


THE   YOKE   OF   THE   THORAH.  257 

queters  fell  to.  By  and  by  toasts  were  proposed, 
and  harangues  delivered.  The  dancing  began  at 
eleven  o'clock,  and  held  out  until  five  the  next 
morning. 

So  they  were  married. 


XIX. 


FIRST  of  all,  weakened  in  body  and  mind  by  an 
epileptic  stroke  ;  then  scared  literally  out  of 
his  wits,  terrified  into  a  mental  and  emotional  stu- 
por, by  the  belief  that  that  which  we  know  to  have 
been  an  epileptic  stroke  was  a  visitation  from  an 
angry  God  ;  a  victim,  rather  than  a  villain  ;  the 
creature  of  disease  and  superstition,  of  heredity 
and  education  ;  Elias  Bacharach  had  deserted  and 
forgotten  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  and  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  seduced  into  a  marriage  with 
a  woman  whom  he  did  not  love.  That  a  reawaken- 
ing, accompanied  by  all  the  horrors  of  despair  and 
remorse,  should  come  sooner  or  later, was,  of  course, 
inevitable.  It  did  not  come,  however,  till  some 
nine  months  after  his  separation  from  Christine 
Redwood,  which  was  some  nine  months  too  late. 

3  have  in  my  possession  a  quantity  of  manuscript, 
in  Elias's  crabbed  handwriting,  which  gives  a  deep 
and  clear,  though  fragmentary,  insight  into  the  life 
he  led  after  his  marriage.  It  is  in  the  form  of  a 
long,    turbulent,    and  often  hysterical   letter,  ad- 


258  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

dressed  by  him,  under  circumstances  which  will  in 
due  time  be  explained,  to  Christine — a  letter,  how- 
ever, which  was  never  sent — and  it  bears  date  Feb- 
r;iary,  1885.  I  have  already  made  one  or  two  quota- 
tions from  it.  I  shall  avail  myself  freely  of  it  in  the 
present  chapter. 

About  the  relations  between  himself  and  Tillie, 
Elias  writes,  "  there  is  not  much  to  be  said.  Our 
relations  were  perfectly  amicable,  but  perfectly 
superficial.  Man  and  wife  in  name,  in  reality  we 
were  simply  good  friends  ;  scarcely  that,  indeed  ; 
scarcely  more  than  friendly  acquaintances.  She 
was  invariably  bright,  cheerful,  amiable,  unselfish. 
I  tried  to  do  my  duty  by  her,  as  I  conceived  it  ;  to  be 
always  kind  to  her,  and  to  seize  every  opportunity 
that  I  saw  to  afford  her  pleasure,  or  to  spare  her  an- 
noyance. I  dare  say  this  was  not  enough.  I  dare 
say  she  deserved  better  of  me  than  she  got ;  that  I 
ought  to  have  striven  to  be  her  husband  in  a  more 
genuine  and  vital  sense  of  the  word.  But  I  did 
not  ;  and  if,  in  this  way,  I  sinned  against  her,  it 
was  at  least  an  unintentional  sin,  a  sin  of  omission, 
and  one  which  she  remained  unaware  of.  I  was 
egotistical  and  self-centered,  as  it  is  my  nature  to 
be.  She  was  not  at  all  exacting.  If  I  would  listen 
to  her  when  she  talked,  and  admire  her  dresses, 
and  enjoy  her  playing,  and  take  her  to  the  theater 
or  to  parties,  she  was  quite  contented.  She  neither 
asked,  nor  appeared  to  expect,  any  thing  further. 
So  that,  though  we  saw  each  other  every  day,  and 
were  together  a  good   deal  of  the  time,  we  were  as 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH,  259 

far  as  possible  from  being  intimate.  Our  real, 
innermost  selves  never  approached  each  other.  In 
fact,  she  and  my  uncle  were  much  more  intimate 
than  she  and  I.  He  was  always  having  her  to  sit 
with  him  in  his  study,  where  he  would  talk  to  her 
of  the  subjects  that  interested  him,  or  get  her  to 
read  aloud  to  him,  or  to  act  as  his  amanuensis,  and 
write  under  his  dictation.  She  thought  my  uncle 
was  a  *  perfectly  adorable  old  man  '  ;  and  he  called 
her  '  the  light  of  his  declining  years.' 

"  I,  meanwhile,  lived  my  own  life,  such  as  it  was, 
in  silence.  But  it  was  not  much  of  a  life.  It  was  not 
especially  enjoyable,  and  it  was  altogether  valueless. 
I  produced  nothing,  accomplished  nothing,  was  of  no 
earthly  use  or  benefit  to  anybody  in  the  world — ex- 
cept a  sort  of  convenient  appendage  to  my  wife. 
My  favorite  occupation — the  only  one  that  I  cared 
any  thing  about — consisted  in  getting  away  by 
myself,  and  reading.  My  studio  was  my  castle. 
Once  inside  it,  with  the  door  closed  behind  me,  I 
was  sure  of  not  being  disturbed.  I  had  forsworn 
my  painting,  as  I  fancied,  for  good  and  all.  I  had 
got  utterly  discouraged  about  it,  had  lost  all  zest  in 
it,  had  vowed  never  to  return  to  it.  But  up  here 
in  my  studio  I  had  a  lot  of  books  ;  and  here  for 
hours  I  would  sit  at  the  window,  reading.  My 
appetite  for  reading  had  recently  become  vora- 
cious, insatiable.  I  can't  convey  to  you  an  idea  of 
how  dependent  I  was  upon  my  books.  They  were 
the  world  in  which  I  lived,  moved,  had  my  being. 
Away  from  them,  I  kept  thinking  about  them,  long- 


26o  THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

ing  to  get  back  to  them.  Not  that  I  derived  so 
much  pleasure  from  them,  but  simply  that  I  was 
unhappy  unless  I  had  them.  They  were  to  me,  I 
suppose,  in  my  dead-and-alive  condition,  something 
like  what  his  drug  is  to  an  opium-eater — not  so 
harmful,  of  course,  but  just  as  indispensable  :  a 
stimulant,  which  I  could  not  do  without.  What 
the  books  were,  doesn't  matter.  All  sorts,  from  the 
latest  sensational  novel,  or  wildest  exposition  of 
spiritualism,  up  to  Milton  and  the  Bible.  Yet, 
perhaps,  I  ought  to  give  you  the  names  of  some  of 
these  books,  for  some  of  them  produced  a  very 
deep  and  vivid  impression  upon  me,  and  no  doubt 
contributed  more  or  less  to  my  subsequent  state  of 
mind — helped,  I  mean,  to  bring  it  on.  Well,  I  re- 
read Wilhehn  Meister  j  and  I  read  for  the  first 
time  Rousseau's  Co?ifessio?is,  de  Musset's  La  Con- 
fession (Tun  Etifant  dii  Steele,  and  Browning's  J  fin 
Album  and  The  Rifig  and  the  Book,  besides  many  of 
his  shorter  poems.  I  mention  these  five  particularly, 
because  they  were  the  ones  that  had  really  strong 
effects.  They  stirred  me  ;  pierced  to  my  heart, 
and  hurt  me  ;  where  other  books  merely  interested 
or  amused  me.  What  I  mean  is,  they  appealed  to 
my  emotions,  where  other  books  merely  appealed  to 
my  intelligence.  Especially  Browning,  When  I  read 
Browning,  the  exhilaration  was  almost  physical.  It 
was  like  breathing  some  vivifying  atmosphere,  like 
drinking  some  powerful  elixir.  It  made  me  glow 
and  tingle  through  and  through.  It  was  as  though 
the  very  inmost  quick  of  my  spirit  had  been  touched, 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  261 

and  made  to  throb  and  thrill.  I  had  never  sup- 
posed, I  would  never  have  believed,  that  any  book 
could  possibly  have  exerted  such  a  profound 
and  irresistible  influence  over  the  reader.  My 
sensation  was  like  an  acute  pain,  that  yet 
somehow  verged  toward — not  pleasure — some- 
thing deeper  and  better  than  pleasure.  No 
music,  not  even  Beethoven's  or  Wagner's,  ever 
moved  me,  ever  carried  me  away,  as  these  poems 
of  Browning's  did.  They  literally  transfixed  me, 
magnetized  me,  like  the  spell  of  a  magician.  The 
reason  was,  of  course,  partly  because  the  poetry 
is  in  itself  so  great  ;  so  intense,  so  penetrating,  so 
vibrant  with  the  living  truth,  so  warm  with  human 
blood  and  passion  ;  and  I  don't  believe  that  any 
man  could  read  it  understandingly  without  being 
affected  by  it  very  much  as  I  was.  But  the  reason 
was  also  partly  personal.  In  The  Ring  and  the 
Book  I  found  expressed,  in  clear,  straightforward 
language,  all  those  deep,  strenuous  emotions  which 
I  myself  had  experienced  in  my  love  of  you,  which 
had  always  groped  and  struggled  for  expression, 
but  which  to  me  had  always  been  inexpressible — 
yearnings  which  I  had  felt  with  all  their  force  and 
ardor,  which  I  had  labored  hard  to  speak,  but  which 
I  had  never  been  able  to  speak,  any  more  than  as  if 
I  had  been  dumb  ;  which,  pent  up  in  my  heart,  and 
straining  for  an  outlet,  had  sought  one  by  means  of 
broken  syllables,  glances,  caresses.  In  The  Ring 
a?td  the  Book  I  found  them  expressed ;  found  my 
own  unutterable  secrets  uttered.     Oh,  if  only  when 


262  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

you  and  I  were  together  I  had  had  The  Ring  and 
the  Book  to  read  aloud  to  you  from  !  Then,  per- 
haps, I  could  have  made  you  feel  how  deeply, 
utterly,  I  loved  you.  In  the  Inn  Albutn,  too,  an- 
other chapter  of  my  own  story  was  told,  more  of  my 
own  secrets  were  laid  bare.  The  material  conditions, 
the  circumstances,  the  accidentals,  to  be  sure,  were 
totally  different ;  but  the  essentials  seemed  to  me  the 
same.  A  man  had  irretrievably  wronged  a  woman 
— a  noble,  beautiful  woman,  who  loved  him  and 
trusted  him.  A  lover  had  acted  basely  toward  his 
sweetheart.  And  there,  also,  I  found  an  expres- 
sion for  my  remorse  and  my  despair.  But  now  I 
am  anticipating.  For  the  present  these  thoughts 
had  not  come  to  me — the  thought  of  you,  and  of 
what  had  been  between  you  and  me,  and  of  how  I 
had  wronged  you.  I  mean  to  say,  they  had  come 
to  me  after  a  fashion  ;  now  and  then,  spasmodic- 
ally, by  fits  and  starts  ;  but  they  had  not  pierced 
more  than  skin-deep,  and  they  had  not  taken  fast 
hold.  They  had  come  and  gone.  Later  on,  they 
came  and  staid — like  coals  burning  in  my  heart. 
For  the  present,  I  did  a  great  deal  of  reading  and 
scarcely  any  thinking.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  in- 
stead of  reading,  I  would  sit  still,  looking  out  of 
the  window,  and  carrying  on  a  certain  mental  pro- 
cess which  might  perhaps  have  been  called  think- 
ing :  but  it  was  the  sort  of  thinking  known  as  moon- 
ing. I  mean  it  was  vague,  listless,  purposeless ;  it 
had  no  vigor,  no  point ;  and  it  bore  no  result. 
You,  and  our  love,  and  the  misery  I  had  caused 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  263 

you,  were  the  subjects  of  it,  yes  ;  but  it  was  like 
thinking  in  a  fog.  It  had  not  grown  intense  and 
clear.  It  had  not  crystallized.  It  awoke  in  my 
breast  a  sort  of  sluggish,  languid  melancholy,  in- 
stead of  the  pain  that  I  ought  to  have  felt,  and 
by  and  by  did  feel — and  feel  now,  and  so  long  as  I 
live  shall  feel.  Whatever  there  is  in  me  that  is  not 
wholly  bad  and  callous,  what  I  suppose  would  be 
called  my  better  nature,  was  just  preparing  to  wake 
up  ;  and  these^were  the  dull,  premonitory  throes.  I 
was  just  beginning  to  come  to  myself,  out  of  a  long 
letharg}^  My  remorse  was  just  beginning  to 
kindle.  It  had  not  yet  sprung  into  the  white-hot 
continuous  fire  that  it  has  since  become." 

In  another  place  he  says:  "As  I  write  to  you 
now,  what  I  am  trying  hard  to  do,  is  to  get  at  close 
quarters  with  the  real,  bare  truth  ;  to  look  straight 
and  steadily  at  it  ;  and  to  tell  you,  as  clearly  and 
as  calmly  as  I  can,  what  I  see.  But  the  truth  is  so 
deep  and  subtle,  though  so  unmistakable  ;  and  I 
am  so  unused  to  writing  ;  and  it  is  so  hard  for  me 
to  keep  down  my  feelings,  that  I  can't  seem  to  find 
the  right  words.  After  I  have  written  a  sentence, 
when  I  come  to  read  it  over,  it  seems  almost  as 
though  I  might  as  well  not  have  written  at  all. 
What  I  write  does  not  express  half  clearly,  or  fully, 
or  forcibly  enough  what  is  in  my  mind.  So  I 
can't  help  fearing  that  you  may  not  understand. 
Yet  my  desire  that  you  shall  understand  is  so 
strong,  I  am  so  serious,  so  much  in  earnest,  I  can 
hardly  believe  it  possible  that  my  words  can  entirely 


264  ^-^^    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH, 

fail  to  show  you  what  I  mean.  If  they  should  do  so, 
if  in  this  letter  I  do  fail  to  make  you  understand, 
then  I  will  say  this  :  the  only  purpose  that  I  have 
left  in  life  will  be  defeated.  That  is  the  only 
object  that  I  care  to  live  for :  to  make  you 
understand.  Oh,  I  beg  of  you,  try  to  understand. 
I  have  no  right  to  ask  you  to  do  any  thing,  to  ex- 
pect any  kindness,  any  common  mercy  even,  from 
you  :  and  yet  I  do  ask,  I  implore  you  to  read 
this  letter  through,  and  to  try  to  understand  what 
I  am  trying  to  express.  Not  a  single  line  is  writ- 
ten which  I  do  not  feel  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 
I  am  striving  honestly,  with  all  my  might,  to  strip 
my  soul  naked  before  you.  And  when  what  I  write 
seems  feeble  or  obscure,  please  endeavor  to  pierce 
through  to  the  meaning  and  the  feeling  of  it.  You 
have  a  kind  and  pitiful  heart  ;  and  if  a  human 
being,  no  matter  how  low  or  base,  called  out  to  you 
in  great  pain  to  stoop  and  do  a  little  thing — a  little, 
easy  thing — to  soothe  and  relieve  him,  I  know  you 
would  do  it.  Well,  that  is  the  way  I  call  out  to 
you  now,  and  beg  you  to  read  and  try  to  under- 
stand my  letter.  "'  As  I  write,  I  feel  like  a  dumb 
man,  his  heart  big  and  sore  v/ith  something  that 
presses  desperately  to  be  spoken,  laboring  to  speak. 
Well,  what  I  want  to  make  you  understand  is  this. 
Very  slowly  and  gradually,  by  imperceptible  degrees, 
a  great  change  was  coming  over  me,  was  being 
wrought  in  me.  This  change  was  really  nothing 
but  a  return  to  health,  mental  and  moral  health. 
Ever  since  that  night  on  which  we  were  to  have 


THE    YOKE  OF  THE    THORAH,  265 

been  married,  I  had  been  mentally  and  morally 
sick — in  an  unhealthy,  unnatural  state.  My  moral 
nature,  and  many  of  my  mental  faculties,  had  lain 
torpid  and  inactive,  as  if  deadened — had  not  per- 
formed their  functions.  Well,  health  was  now 
slowly  returning  to  them,  health  and  vitality.  The 
depths  of  my  spirit — it  is  a  canting  phrase,  but  it 
expresses  exactly  what  I  mean — the  depths  of  my 
spirit,  which  had  long  lain  stagnant,  were  being 
stirred.  I  had  always  comprehended,  as  a  mere 
intellectual  proposition,  how  much  you  must  have 
suffered.  It  was  obvious.  Dull  and  half  stupefied 
as  I  was,  I  could  not  help  comprehending  that.  It 
was  like  two-and-two-make-?four.  But  the  compre- 
hension had  got  no  further  than  my  brain.  It  had 
not  touched  my  heart,  and  made  it  shudder  with 
horror,  and  burn  with  remorse,  for  my  own  base- 
ness, and  for  the  agony  that  I  had  inflicted  upon 
you,  as  it  has  done  since.  I  had  comprehended, 
but  I  had  not  felt  it.  My  love  of  you  had  been 
struck  dead  ;  and  my  imagination — or  whatever 
the  faculty  is,  which  causes  us  to  sympathize  with 
another's  pain — was  failing  to  act.  So  I  had  gone 
about  the  daily  affairs  of  my  life,  in  no  wise  troub- 
led or  affected  by  the  fact,  which  I  was  perfectly 
aware  of,  that  you,  at  the  same  time,  in  solitude, 
were^  suffering  the  worst  sorrow  possible  in  the 
world — yes,  absolutely  the  worst  ;  I  know  it.  I 
had  gone  about,  and  got  what  apology  for  enjoy- 
ment, what  vulgar  amusement,  I  could,  out  of  life  ; 
had  eaten,  drunken,  talked,  laughed,  read,  smoked, 


266  THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH, 

paid  calls,  listened  to  music,  all  precisely  as  though 
you  did  not  exist,  never  had  existed  ;  and  finally  I 
had  become  engaged  and  married  ;  and  all  the 
while  I  knew  what  hopeless,  speechless  anguish 
you  were  enduring,  thanks  to  me  ;  I  knew  it, 
but  did  not  care.  Now  and  then  I  would  think  of 
it ;  but  so  dead  was  my  heart,  the  thought  never 
aroused  a  single  throe  of  pain  in  it.  I  thought  of 
it  on  the  night  of  my  wedding.  In  the  midst  of  the 
dancing,  in  the  midst  of  the  loud,  romping  merri- 
ment, I  thought  :  *  What  is  she  doing  at  this 
moment  ? '  But  it  was  nothing  like  sym.pathy  or  self- 
reproach,  that  prompted  me.  It  was  a  sense  of  the 
curious  incongruity.  I  shrugged  my  shoulders, 
said  to  myself  that  I  could  not  help  it,  and  went  on 
dancing.  This  will  show  you  how  low  I  had 
sunken,  how  callous  I  had  become  ;  and  you  may 
imagine  how  I  despise  myself,  how  I  hate 
and  abhor  myself,  as  I  recall  it  now.  Oh,  my 
God  !  my  God  ! — Christine,  for  God's  sake, 
when  you  read  this,  don't  harden  against  me, 
because  of  it,  and  refuse  to  read  any  more.  Don't 
stop  reading.  For  God's  sake,  in  mercy  to  me,  go 
on  reading  to  the  end.  Don't  close  your  ears 
against  me,  and  refuse  to  listen.  The  only  allevi- 
ation of  my  torments  that  I  have,  is  the  hope  that 
you  will  read  this  letter  through,  and   understand 

how  I  have   repented Well,  as  I  say, 

this  state  of  being  was  now  slowly,  gradually, 
changing  Not  a  day  passed  now  but  I  would 
think  of  you,  and  of  every  thing  that  had  been 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  267 

between  you  and  me,  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end ;  and  now  these  thoughts  did  arouse  pains  in 
my  heart — vague  pains,  that  I  did  nqt  understand 
— dull  pains,  such  as  one  feels  in  sleep,  or  while 
under  the  influence  of  an  opiate — but  still,  certainl}^ 
pain.  As  I  said  before,  I  was  only  just  beginning 
to  come  to  myself.  My  realization  of  what  I  had 
done,  of  what  you  had  suffered,  of  what  I  had 
made  you  suffer,  had  not  yet  crystallized.  My  love 
had  not  yet  waked  up.  My  remorse  had  not  yet 
got  really  afire.  But  all  of  a  sudden,  one  day,  the 
complete  change  came.  The  change  was  precipi- 
tated. 

*'  It  was  a  Friday  afternoon  late  in  February, 
a  year  ago — dark,  rainy,  warmish.  My  wife  had 
gone  to  the  rehearsal  at  Steinway  Hall.  I  had 
agreed  to  meet  her  in  the  lobby,  at  the  end,  and 
bring  her  home.  All  day  long,  that  day,  I  had  done 
nothing  but  mope.  I  had  sat  at  my  studio  window 
looking  out  into  the  gray,  wet  park,  or  up  into  the 
heavy,  inky  clouds,  and  giving  myself  over  to  the 
blues — thinking  that  there  was  the  world,  full  of 
interests  and  activities,  the  same  world  that  I  had 
used  to  find  so  pleasant,  and  in  which  I  had  hoped 
to  work  and  to  be  of  service,  the  same  world  quite 
unaltered  ;  and  that  yet,  somehow,  unchanged  as  it 
appeared  to  be,  it  had  changed  totally  for  me^  had 
lost  all  its  flavor  for  me,  all  its  attraction  for  me  ; 
the  light,  the  spirit,  had  died  out  of  it.  I  got  no 
pleasure  from  it.  I  was  of  no  use  in  it.  I  was  so 
much  inert,  obstructive  stuff  and  lumber.     Then, 


268  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

Vv'hy  did  I  continue  to  exist  ?  Neither  useful  nor 
happy,  what  excuse  for  being  had  I  ?  AVhy  should 
I  not  at  once  be  annihilated  and  done  away  with  ? 
etc.,  etc.  This  was  the  strain  that  my  mind  had 
been  running  in  all  day  long.  Then,  toward  five 
o'clock,  I  put  on  my  hat  and  walked  around  to  Stein- 
way  Hall  to  wait  for  Tillie.  It  was  singular,  and 
even  now  I  can  not  account  for  it  by  any  ordinary 
theory,  that,  as  I  stood  there  in  the  lobby  waiting, 
while  the  audience,  mostly  women,  passed  out,  I 
was  conscious  of  a  strange  trembling  of  the  heart, 
such  as  one  feels  in  anticipation  of  some  momentous 
event,  such  as  usually  accompanies  what  we  call  a 
presentiment — a  presentiment  that  something  por- 
tentous for  our  good  or  for  our  evil  is  about  to 
happen.  I  could  not  understand  it  at  all.  I  could 
not  imagine  what  it  was  caused  by.  And  yet,  not- 
withstanding, I  could  not  subdue  it.  It  went  on 
from  moment  to  moment  getting  more  intense  ; 
troubling  me,  perplexing  me.  I  concluded  that  it 
must  be  the  wind-up  and  climax  of  my  blues,  just 
as  a  dull,  dark  day  sometimes  winds  up  and  reaches 
its  climax  in  a  thunder-storm.  I  said  to  myself, 
*  You  have  not  felt  any  thing  like  this  for  nearly  a 
year.  This  is  the  sort  of  thing  you  used  to  feel 
when  you  were  in  love — after  you  had  rung  Chris- 
tine's door-bell,  while  you  were  waiting  and  chafing 
for  the  door  to  be  opened.'  Meantime  the  audience 
were  pouring  out  past  me,  laughing,  chatting,  greet- 
ing their  acquaintances,  putting  up  their  umbrellas  ; 
and  I  was  keeping  a  look-out  for  my  wife.     When, 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  269 

all  of  a  sudden,  my  heart,  which  had  been  trembling 
in  the  way  I  have  described,  all  of  a  sudden  it  gave 
a  great,  terrible  leap,  and  then  stood  stock  still  ;  and 
I  could  not  breathe  nor  move,  but  was  literally 
petrified,  rooted  to  the  spot,  and  felt  a  fearful  pain 
begin  to  burn  in  my  breast.  For  I  saw — I  saw  you. 
Oh,  my  God  !  I  saw  you  come  out  of  the  hall,  and 
move  slowly  through  the  lobby,  passing  within 
almost  a  yard  of  me,  so  that  I  could  have  stretched 
out  my  hand  and  touched  you,  so  that,  if  I  had 
whispered  your  name,  you  would  have  heard  me, 
and  saw  you  go  down  the  stairs  and  disappear  in 
the  street.  I  stood  there  with  wide,  staring  eyes 
and  parted  lips,  like  a  man  turned  to  stone.  How 
shall  I  ever  disentangle,  and  put  before  you  in  some 
sort  of  consecutive  order,  the  great  crowd  of 
thoughts  and  emotions  that  suddenly,  and  all  at  the 
same  time,  broke  loose  in  my  heart  and  brain  ?  In 
that  brief  interval — it  could  not  have  been  more 
than  a  minute  altogether — I  lived  through  almost 
every  thing  that  I  have  lived  through  since.  It 
was  all  compressed  into  that  minute.  I  shall  try 
hard  to  give  you  some  sort  of  an  account  of  it,  to 
make  it  as  clear  and  as  comprehensible  as  I  can. 
But  I  know  that,  however  hard  I  try,  I  shall  only  be 
able  to  give  you  a  very  meager  and  faint  conception. 
If  I  could  only  see  you,  and  speak  to  you — if  for  one 
moment  I  could  kneel  down  at  your  feet,  and  touch 
your  hand,  and  look  into  your  face,  and  utter  one 
long,  deep  sigh — oh,  I  should  feel  then  as  though  I 
had  in  some  degree  expressed  what  was,and  has  been 


2  7°  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

ever  since,  in  my  heart  and  mind.  Sometimes,  when 
I  have  listened  to  certain  pieces  of  music,  I  have  felt 
that  in  them  was  the  expression  for  my  unspeakable 
emotions.  I  have  felt  this  about  some  of  Chopin's 
impromptus  and  nocturnes — that  if  I  could  some- 
how make  you  hear  them,  you  would  somehow 
understand.  Do  you  know  the  Impromptu  in 
C-sharp  minor  ?  That  sometimes  seems  to  express 
almost  perfectly  my  grief  and  passion  and  remorse 
and  hopeless  longing.  But — but  to  touch  your 
hand,  and  look  into  your  eyes,  and  sob  at  your 
feet — I  would  be  willing  to  die  at  the  end  of  one 
minute  spent  that  way.  But  see — see  how  I  am 
compelled  to  sit  here,  away  from  you,  and  real- 
ize that  never,  never,  so  long  as  I  live,  shall  I 
be  allowed  to  approach  you,  or  speak  to  you. 
Can  you  imagine  the  agony  it  is,  to  yearn 
with  your  whole  soul  to  speak  one  word  to  a 
woman  ;  to  have  your  whole  soul  and  heart  and 
mind  burdened  with  something  that  burns  like  fire, 
and  will  never  cease  burning  until  you  have  emptied 
soul  and  heart  and  mind  at  her  feet  ;  and  to  know 
that  she  is  scarcely  a  mile  distant  from  you,  in  the 
same  city  with  you  ;  and  yet  to  know  that  if  she 
were  dead  she  would  not  be  further  removed  from 
you,  it  could  not  be  more  impossible  for  you  ever 
to  approach  her,  ever  to  speak  with  her  ?  Can  you 
imagine  that  ?  Oh,  sometimes  I  can  not  believe  it — 
believe  that  facts  can  be  so  inexorable.  Sometimes 
it  seems  against  nature  that  a  man's  whole  strength, 
whole  life,  can  be  concentrated  in  one  single  wish, 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH  271 

aiid  yet  the  fulfillment  of  that  wish  be  absolutely 
beyond  hope.  It  is  too  stupendous,  too  monstrous. 
Oh,  to  think  !  To  think  that  at  this  very  moment 
you,  your  own  living  self,  are  almost  within  reach 
of  my  voice  !  It  would  not  take  half  an  hour  to 
bring  me  to  your  side.  And  once  there,  once  in 
your  actual  presence — Oh,  my  God  !  This  unceas- 
ing agony  would  be  ended,  this  unutterable  agony 
would  be  uttered.  We  two  should  be  together 
once  again — you  and  I.  Oh,  the  joy,  the  joy,  to 
sob  out  all  our  grief  together,  and  soothe  each 
other's  pain  !  And  yet,  if  I  were  at  the  other 
extremity  of  the  earth,  or  if  you  were  dead,  it 
could  not  be  more  impossible,  I  could  not  be  more 
hopeless.     Christine  ! 

"  But  there  !  I  am  losing  control  of  myself,  cry- 
ing out  and  raving  in  my  despair.  But  what  I  have 
set  myself  to  do,  is  to  keep  perfectly  calm,  and,  by 
the  aid  of  all  my  forces,  to  try  to  give  you  a  clear 
statement  of  what  I  have  been  through.  If  I  ever 
succeed  in  making  you  realize  how  thoroughly  I  have 
understood  your  pain,  how  completely  I  have  appre- 
ciated the  enormity  of  my  own  conduct,  and  how 
bitterly  I  have  repented  it,  I  shall  be  almost  happy, 
and  I  shall  have  discharged  a  duty  toward  you — the 
only  duty  that  I  have  a  right  any  more  to  owe  you. 

"  Well,  now,  I  tell  you  that  in  that  one  minute — 
in  the  time  that  elapsed  from  the  instant-  I  first 
caught  sight  of  you,  down  to  the  instant  when  you 
disappeared  in  the  street  below — in  that  minute, 
with  intensity  proportionate  to  the  rapidity,  I  lived 


272  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH, 

through  nearly  every  thing  that  I  have  lived  through 
since.  All  my  vivid  realization  of  how  utterly  base 
I  myself  had  been,  and  of  your  unspeakable  agony, 
caused  by  me,  your  despair,  your  humiliation;  all  my 
remorse,  my  yearning  to  atone  for  what  could  never 
be  atoned  for,  to  repair  the  irreparable  wrong  that  I 
had  done  ;  all  my  sense  of  what  I  had  wantonly  flung 
away,  and  lost  beyond  recovery ;  all  my  despair  ; 
in  a  word,  all  my  love — love  that  had  lain  stunned, 
as  I  supposed  dead^  but  now  suddenly  had  come  to, 
never  to  let  me  rest  any  more  :  these,  and  much 
else  that  I  shall  not  attempt  to  reduce  to  words, 
these  were  what  sprang  upon  me  all  at  once,  shak- 
ing my  soul  to  its  foundations,  and  holding  me 
rigid,  horrified,  in  their  grasp.  Oh,  help  me  to  find 
an  expression  for  what  strains  so  hard  to  be  spoken. 
I  have  just  read  over  what  I  have  written.  It 
sounds  vague,  cold,  formal.  If  I  had  left  the  paper 
blank,  it  would  have  done  about  as  well.  What  I 
have  written  conveys  only  the  weak  echo  of  what 
I  want  to  say,  of  what  I  feel.  I  stood  there  in  the 
lobby  of  Steinway  Hall  ;  and  I  watched  you  pass 
under  my  eyes  ;  and  I  saw  how  pale  you  were,  how 
large  and  dark  and  sorrowful  your  eyes  were  ;  and 
suddenly  I  knew,  I  understood,  how  I,  my  very  self, 
had  made  you  suffer,  you  whom  I  loved,  and  how 
never,  never,  no  matter  how  long  I  might  live,  could 
I  in  any  way  do  any  thing  to  soothe  you,  to  comfort 
you,  to  make  up  to  you  for  the  suffering  I  had  caused 
you  ;  I  knew  and  understood  all  this  ;  and  my  heart 
went  out  to  you,  bounding  and  burning  with  a 


.     THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  273 

thousand  fierce  emotions,  with  an  anguish  of 
remorse  and  love — oh,  my  sweet,  injured  lady 
beautiful,  frail  Christine  ! — and  now,  now  when 
I  try  to  give  you  some  faint  idea  of  it,  I  am  as 
helpless  to  do  so,  as  if  I  were  trying  to  scream  out 
in  a  nightmare,  and  my  voice  failed  me,  and  my 
tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.  What  if  I 
had  trampled  down  all  conventional  restraints,  and 
then  and  there,  in  spite  of  the  crowd,  in  spite  of 
every  thing,  had  rushed  forward  and  stopped  you, 
and  thrown  myself  upon  the  ground  before  you, 
abasing  myself  at  your  feet,  and  just  moaned  out 
loud — letting  it  all  burst  forth  in  one  good,  deep, 
satisfying  sob  ?  My  heart  throbs  hard  at  the 
thought.  Yet,  of  course,  I  had  no  right  to  do  it. 
If  I  had  done  it,  I  should  only  have  relieved  myself, 
at  the  cost  of  paining  you — you  whom,  God  knows, 
I  have  already  pained  enough.  .  .  .  Oh, 
well,  I  must  try  to  do  my  best  with  pen  and 
ink.  Well,  as  I  say,  I  stood  there,  breathing 
heavily,  at  last,  after  many  months  of  death, 
at  last  alive,  I  stood  there  like  that,  when — 
when  my  wife  came  up,  and  took  my  arm,  and 
demanded,  startled  by  my  appearance,  what  the 
matter  was.  My  wife  !  And  I  had  just  seen  you  ; 
and  my  soul  was  full  of  you,  you  whom  I  had 
wronged  and  lost !  And  here  was  my  wife,  taking 
my  arm,  speaking  to  me,  emphasizing  the  antith- 
esis. The  past  and  the  present  !  What  I  had 
given  up,  and  what  I  had  got  in  place  of  it !  After 
my  glimpse  of  you,  the  reality — Tillie  !     Oh,  it  was 


2  74  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

as  though  a  starving  man  had  just  seen  bread, 
smelled  meat,  and  then,  looking  into  his  own  hand, 
had  found  a  stone  there.  She  took  my  arm  ;  and 
I  turned  her  question  as  best  I  could  ;  and  I  led 
her  home.  Conceive  how,  as  I  walked  home  from 
Steinway  Hall  this  Friday  afternoon,  the  ghost  of 
a  certain  other  Friday  afternoon  bore  me  company. 
One  Friday  afternoon,  only  a  little  more  than  a  year 
earlier,  in  December,  1882,  you  had  gone  with  me 
there,  to  hear  the  Dafnnation  of  Faust.  Do  you 
remember  ?  You  had  sat  at  my  side,  close  at  my 
side.  You  had  looked  into  my  eyes,  had  touched 
my  arm,  had  spoken  to  me.  The  sweetness  of  the  rose 
that  you  wore  in  your  bosom,  had  filled  my  nostrils. 
For  one  instant,  one  delirious  instant,  your  breath, 
your  very  breath,  had  fallen  upon  my  cheek  !  You 
had  allowed  me  to  wrap  you  in  your  cloak,  when 
you  felt  a  draught — in  the  fur  circular  you  used  to 
wear  ;  I  remember  the  faint  perfume  that  always 
clung  to  it.  We  were  so  intimate,  so  confidential, 
you  and  I  !  You  were  happy.  And  I  loved  you  ; 
and  I  had  the  possibility  of  winning  your  love  open 
before  me.  And  now  !  God,  to  think  that  the 
possibility  which  that  afternoon  held  safe  in  store 
for  me,  had  been  used  and  wasted  !  To  think  that 
by  no  remaining  possibility  it  could  ever  be  won 
back  !  Every  thing  was  destroyed.  I  myself,  by 
my  own  voluntary  act,  had  destroyed  every  thing — 
even  hope.  Well,  well,  my  wife  and  I  walked 
home.  My  brain  and  my  heart  were  burning. 
Chaos  w'as  let  loose  in  them.     I  wanted  to  scream 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  275 

out,  to  beat  my  breast,  to  rend  my  garments.  But 
I  had,  instead,  to  put  on  an  indifferent  face, 
exchange  commonplaces  with  her,  take  her 
home  ;  and,  it  being  Sabbath  by  this  time,  had  to 
join  in  the  praying  and  the  Scripture-reading,  and 
all  that.  Of  course,  I  was  eager,  wild,  to  get  away, 
by  myself.  But  I  had  to  sit  it  out  with  the  family 
— my  wife,  her  mother,  my  uncle — till  ten  o'clock 
that  night.  I  was  pretty  nearly  beside  myself. 
But  at  last  1  escaped,  and  got  into  my  studio. 
There  is  no  use  my  writing  about  that  night,  the 
night  I  passed  alone  up  here  in  my  studio — alone 
with  you  ;  for,  so  intense  was  my  thought  of  you, 
you  were  all  but  palpable  at  my  side.  I  had  given 
you  back,  as  I  supposed,  all  your  letters — every 
keepsake  I  had  to  connect  me  with  the  past.  But 
this  night,  as  the  reward  of  much  ransacking,  I 
found  in  the  drawer  of  my  desk  the  very  first  note 
you  had  ever  written  me,  the  one  in  which  you 
said  you  would  go  with  me  to  the  exhibition.  Do 
you  remember  ?  How  we  walked  up  and  down  the 
galleries  ?  And  how  you  leaned  upon  my  arm  ?  And 
the  little  red  bonnet  that  you  wore  ?  And  how, 
afterward,  we  went  to  Delmonico's  ?  That  little 
note,  ever  since,  has  been  the  most  precious  of  all 
my  possessions.  Your  own  hand  traced  these  let- 
ters !  Your  own  breath  fell  upon  this  paper  ! 
What  effect  it  had  upon  me  that  night,  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  tell  you.  Think  of  this  :  it  still  kept  a 
faint  trace  of  its  fragrance — of  the  sweet  smell  it 
had  had,  when  you  first  sent  it  to  me.     That  that 


276  THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH. 

should  have  remained,  that  immaterial,  evanescent 
perfume  !  That  that  should  have  outlasted  the 
rest  !  No  ;  there  is  no  use  of  my  writing  a  line 
about  that  night.  I  should  only  be  incoherent,  if  I 
tried.  All  I  will  say  is  this  :  if  you  had  cared  about 
revenge,  and  had  witnessed  my  suffering  that 
night,  you  would  have  been  satisfied." 

Still  elsewhere,  he  goes  on  as  follows  :  "  Chris- 
tine, what  I  want  to  say  to  you  is  very  simple. 
I  don't  understand  why  I  should  have  so  much 
difficulty  in  saying  it,  why  every  attempt  I  make  at 
saying  it  should  be  such  a  wretched  failure.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  because,  when  I  bring  my  mind  to  bear 
upon  it,  when  I  look  it  squarely  in  the  face,  it  ap- 
palls me  so,  I  get  so  excited,  my  feelings  get 
so  wTought  up,  that  I  lose  the  self-command 
which  a  man  must  retain,  in  order  to  express 
himself  clearly  and  fully  with  his  pen.  It  is  as  if, 
instead  of  saying  what  I  have  to  say,  fluently  and 
directly,  I  were  to  falter,  and  stammer,  and  gasp 
forth  inarticulate,  unmeaning  sounds.  If  only  the 
impossible  were  not  impossible  ;  if  only  the  hope- 
less were  not  hopeless  ;  if  for  one  minute  I  could 
stand  in  your  presence,  alone  with  you,  and  look 
into  your  eyes,  and  touch  your  hand,  and  speak 
one  word  to  you  —  just  call  you  by  your  name, 
Christine  ! — or,  no,  not  even  do  that,  not  even 
speak,  but  simply  stand  there  silent,  and  look  at 
you  :  then,  I  feel  sure  that  somehow  you  would 
understand,  and  then  I  could  find  something  like 
peace.     You  would  understand  by  instinct,  by  in- 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  277 

tuition,  what  my  mind  and  heart  are  full  of.  If 
such  a  meeting  might  only  come  to  pass  !  But  I 
do  not  delude  myself.  I  know  that  it  never  can 
come  to  pass — never,  not  if  we  go  on  living  in  the 
same  city  for  fifty  years.  Constant  and  intense  as 
my  longing  to  see  you  is,  fiercely  as  my  heart  beats 
at  the  thought  of  meeting  you,  I  know  that  I  might 
as  well  long  to  see,  think  of  meeting,  one  who  is 
dead.  I  am  a  married  man,  and  have  no  right  to 
seek  to  see  you.  But  even  if  I  were  not  a  married 
man,  you,  whose  scorn  and  hatred  of  me  must  be 
bottomless,  you  would  spurn  me,  you  would  refuse, 
shuddering,  to  look  at  me,  or  to  listen  to  me.  I 
know  it.  Even  if  you  ever,  in  your  holy  goodness 
and  mercy,  can  forgive  me  in  some  degree  for 
what  I  have  done,  I  know  you  never  can  forgive 
me  enough  to  let  me  approach  you,  to  let  me  speak 
to  you  by  word  of  mouth.  The  mere  idea  of  meet- 
ing me,  I  suppose,  must  always  be  full  of  horror 
for  you.  I  can  never  atone  for  the  wrong  I  have 
done  you.  I  can  never  even  tell  you  of  my  re- 
morse, and  beseech  your  forgiveness,  except  by 
writing.  So  I  write,  begging  you,  in  charity,  to 
read  and  to  try  and  get  my  meaning.  If  it  were 
not  for  the  hope  that  you  will  read  this  letter 
through,  I  believe  my  agony  would  drive  me  mad. 
This  hope  is  the  only  thing  that  mitigates  it,  and 
makes  it  bearable. 

*'  Well,  then,  here  is  the  simple  truth,  told  as  sim- 
ply as,  by  my  utmost  effort,  I  can  tell  it.  For  a 
period  of  some  months,  I  had  been  in  a  condition 


278  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    T  HO  RAH. 

which  you  must  let  me  compare  roughly  to  som- 
nambulism—  a  sort  of  daze,  a  dull,  half-waking 
trance.  While  in  that  condition,  a  great  number 
of  my  mental  and  moral,  faculties  had  lain  abso- 
lutely dormant — just  as  much  so,  as  if  I  had  not 
possessed  them.  From  that  unconscious  fit  into 
which  I  fell  on  the  night  of  our  wedding,  I  had 
never  perfectly  recovered.  My  body  had  recov- 
ered, yes,  and  a  part  of  my  mind — the  every-day, 
working  part.  But  the  rest  of  my  mind,  the  better 
part  of  it,  had  never  emerged  from  the  coma  which 
it  sank  into  then.  And  during  this  period,  I 
want  to  say,  I  do  not  think  I  was,  in  the 
ordinary  sense,  responsible  for  what  I  did.  I  was 
mentally  responsible  :  that  is,  I  knew  what  I  was 
doing,  and  I  chose  to  do  it.  But  I  was  not  exactly 
morally  responsible,  because  morally  I  was  blind. 
My  moral  sense — my  heart  and  conscience,  I  mean, 
were  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation  ;  and  I  acted 
without  their  guidance.  I  don't  say  this  with 
a  view  to  excusing  myself.  I  say  it,  because  I 
honestly  believe  that  it  is  true,  and  because,  to 
some  extent,  it  accounts  for  my  otherwise  unaccount- 
able way  of  acting.  Well,  let  me  call  it  somnambu- 
lism. Then,  on  that  Friday  afternoon,  when  I  so 
unexpectedly  caught  sight  of  you  in  the  lobby  of 
Steinway  Hall,  there,  at  that  instant,  all  of  a  sudden, 
I  woke  up;  I  came  to  my  senses,  in  heart  and  mind 
was  my  complete  self  again.  And  awaking  in  this 
way,  getting  my  moral  eyes  opened,  my  moral  fac- 
ulties into  running  order,  I  then  for  the  first  time, 


THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH.  279 

saw,  realized,  understood,  what,  while  in  that  irre- 
sponsible, somnambulistic  state,  I  had  done.  Dum- 
foundered,  aghast,  I  saw  the  ruin  I  had  wrought 
— ruin  of  your  life,  your  world,  and  of  mine — 
total,  hopeless  ruin.  I  have  read  of  a  man  who 
dearly  loved  his  wife,  and  who,  one  night,  in  his 
sleep,  got  up  and  murdered  her.  When  he  av/oke 
next  morning,  and  found  her  lying  dead  beside  him, 
and  made  the  horrible  discovery  that  he  himself 
had  done  it — well,  he  must  have  felt  a  little  as  I 
felt  after  I  had  seen  you  that  day  at  Steinway 
Hall.  And  the  worst  of  it  —  the  aspect  of  it 
which  was  most  unbearable,  most  infuriating 
— was  this  knowledge,  that  loomed  up  before  me, 
as  big  and  as  unalterable  as  a  mountain  of  granite  : 
the  knowledge  that  what  I  had  done  could  never  be 
undone  ;  that  the  desolation  to  which  I  had  re- 
duced our  world,  could  never  be  repaired  ;  that, 
no  matter  how  bitter  my  remorse  was,  no  mat- 
ter how  poignant  my  regret,  I  could  never  atone 
for  the  wrong  I  had  com.mitted,  never  could  win 
back  again  the  treasure  I  had  thrown  away.  It 
was  a  mountain  of  granite,  I  say,  against  which, 
frantically,  with  all  my  puny  strength,  I  dashed 
myself  ;  thereby  making  no  impression,  but  falling- 
back,  bruised,  stunned,  disheartened.  My  knowl- 
edge now  of  your  suffering,  my  knowledge  of  how 
1  had  made  you  suffer,  and  that,  though  my  whole 
life  yearned  toward  you  with  tenderness,  love,  con- 
trition, unutterable,  I  never  in  all  my  life  could  do 
the  slightest,  smallest  thing  toward  making  amends 


28o  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

to  you,  toward  soothing  the  pain,  heahng  the 
wounds,  that  I  had  inflicted  upon  you — upon  you, 
my  pale,  sweet  lady — oh,  I  ask  you  to  imagine  how 
heavily  that  knowledge  weighed  upon  my  spirit, 
how  sharp  its  clutch  was,  how  it  would  never  let 
me  rest,  never  allow  me  a  moment  of  forgetfulness, 
but  clung  constantly  and  grimly,  a  monster  with 
which  it  would  be  futile  for  me  to  hope  to  struggle. 
That  last  meeting  between  us,  when  you  came  here 
to  my  studio,  to  this  very  room,  to  the  room  I  am 
writing  in  now,  and  I  here,  in  my  uncle's  presence, 
threw  you  down  and  trampled  upon  you,  and  al- 
lowed him  to  lead  you  away,  crushed  and  bleeding 
— that  last  meeting,  when  I  still  had  it  in  my  power 
to  spare  you  all  that  shame  and  sorrow,  to  take  you 
in  my  arms,  and  quiet  all  your  pain,  and  kiss  away 
all  your  fear,  and  to  keep  you — keep  you  for  myself 
— oh,  you  may  imagine  how  my  memory  of  that 
meeting,  my  realization  of  how  I  had  hurt  and  hu- 
miliated you,  my  recognition  of  the  wasted  possibil- 
ities it  had  held,  would  not  out  of  my  heart,  but 
abode  there  all  the  time,  eating  into  it  like  acid. 
The  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  room,  which  had  been 
witnesses  of  that  last  meeting,  seemed  eternally  to 
be  crying  it  out  at  me.  When  I  looked  at  the  floor, 
it  was  as  if  I  saw  a  blood -stain  there  where  you  had 
stood.  Oh,  to  think  that  there  for  one  long  minute 
you  did  really  stand,  you  yourself,  within  arm's- 
reach  of  me  ;  and  I  might  have  put  out  my  hand, 
and  touched  you,  and  taken  hold  of  you,  and  kept 
you  to  me   forever,  but  did  not  !     To  think  that 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  281 

I  let  you  go  ;  and  you  went  ;  and  I  did  not  call  you 
back  !  Oh,  God,  if  I  had  only  come  to  my  senses 
soon  enough  to  have  called  you  back  !  But  no, 
no  ;  you  went  ;  and  there  was  an  end  of  it  all. 
Love,  happiness,  hope,  all  went  out  with  you.  I 
drove  you  out.  I  drove  them  out.  Christine,  for 
every  single  pain  that  I  inflicted  upon  you  at  that 
meeting,  I  ask  you  to  believe,  I  have  never  ceased 
to  pay  with  the  acutest  anguish  that  I  am  capable 
of  feeling.  That  spot  on  my  floor  where  you  stood 
— ah,  God,  how  many  thousand  times  have  I  kissed 
Jt  since  !  Ah,  God,  if  there  were  only  some  power 
in  earth  or  heaven  that  could  bring  you  back  there, 
make  you  stand  there,  again,  for  just  one  minute 
more  !  And  it  was  I — I,  whose  soul  goes  out  to 
you  with  an  immensity  of  love  that  I  can  not  find 

words  for I,  who  would  give  all  the  rest  of  my 

life  for  the  privilege  of  caressing  and  comforting 
you  for  a  single  instant — I,  whose  place  it  was  to 
shield  you  and  protect  you — I  myself,  who  drove 
you  away  from  here,  heart-broken,  never  to  return. 
Oh,  my  beautiful,  pale  darling  !  Christine,  lost, 
lost  forever  !  Here  am  I,  my  heart  bursting  with 
the  desire  to  be,  in  some  way,  of  some  sort  of  serv- 
ice to  you  ;  and  there  are  you,  needing  perhaps 
some  little  service  :  and  yet  if  we  were  upon  differ- 
ent planets,  it  could  not  be  more  impossible  for  me 
ever  to  lift  my  finger  in  your  aid  !  Oh,  I  say,  it  is 
infuriating.  It  is  too  much.  Oh,  if  I  could  tear 
open  my  breast,  and  let  you  look  in,  and  see  ! — see 
the  iove,  the  remorse,  the  despair,  that  are  stirring 


2  82  THE_  YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH. 

in  perpetual  fever  there.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  misery 
I  caused  you  !  The  long,  hateful  days  that  you 
had  to  drag  through  afterward,  while  I  was  amus- 
ing myself,  dining  out,  learning  to  dance,  getting 
engaged  and  married  !  Far  and  wide,  as  far  as 
your  eye  could  see,  the  world,  which  liad  been  a 
fair  and  fragrant  garden  in  your  sight,  had  crum- 
bled suddenly  to  a  bleak  waste  of  dust  and  ashes. 
The  hand  that  you  loved  had  dealt  you  a  blow 
worse  than  a  death-blow.  You  had  entrusted  your 
happiness  to  me,  and  I  had  betrayed  my  trust ;  had 
taken  it,  and  deliberately  dashed  it  to  the  ground, 
and  shattered  it  beyond  possibility  of  mending. 
My  frail,  beautiful  lady.  Yes,  if  I  had  stabbed 
you  with  a  knife,  I  should  not  have  been  so  brutal, 
so  base,  so  cruel  ;  your  pain  would  not  have  been 
so  great  ;  I  should  have  less  to  reproach  myself 
with  to-day.     Yes,  I  know  it." 

But,  the  reader  may  curiously  ask,  how  about 
his  theology  ?  his  belief  that  it  had  been  the  act  of 
heaven  ?  This  question  he  touches  upon  only  inci- 
dentally, and  disposes  of  briefly  :  "  In  the  light 
of  my  resuscitated  love,  the  mere  remembrance 
of  that  blasphemous  delusion  filled  me  with 
loathing  for  myself — made  me  shudder,  and 
draw  back,  sickened.  It  was  a  monstrous  lie.  I 
can  not  bring  myself  to  write  about  it."  And  on 
another  page,  he  says  :  **  My  superstition  was  the 
dragon,  whose  breath  poisoned  our  joy,  withered 
our  world,  burned  out  our  hearts.     The  dragon  was 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THOKAH,  283 

killed  at  last,  but  too  late — after  its  ravages  had 
been  accomplished,  after  it  had  done  its  worst." 

I  may  seize  this  opportunity,  also,  to  request  that 
if  Elias  is  not  always  so  scrupulous  about  his  syn- 
tax and  rhetoric  as  one  might  wish,  the  reader  will 
charitably  pardon  him,  in  view  of  the  high  degree 
of  mental  excitement  under  which  he  is  manifestly 
laboring. 

"Well,"  he  continues,  "  after  this  reawakening, 
what  of  my  life  ?  Externally  my  life  went  on  pre- 
cisely as  before.  I  was  married.  I  had  married  of 
my  own  free  will.  I  knew  that,  however  detestable 
my  marriage  might  now  have  become  to  me,  I  was 
bound  in  all  honor  and  decency  not  to  do  any  thing 
that  could  make  my  wife  unhappy.  I  had  already 
done  mischief  enough  in  the  world.  I  must  not,  if 
I  could  help  it,  do  any  more.  I  must  keep  my  secret. 
Though  all  the  forces  of  my  body  and  soul  were 
sucked  up  and  concentrated  in  that  one  fierce 
secret,  as  they  were,  I  must  not  let  it  appear.  So,  the 
relations  between  my  wife  and  myself  went  on  pre- 
cisely as  before  ;  and  I  tried  to  be  a  good  husband 
to  her,  and  to  give  her  what  pleasure,  and  spare 
her  what  pain,  I  could.  The  same  theaters,  dinners, 
parties  ;  the  same  talk  about  dresses,  the  same 
piano  playing.  Sometimes,  even  while,  with  as  much 
nonchalance  of  manner  as  I  could  master,  I  was 
listening  to  her  prattle,  my  secret  would  be  burning 
so  hot  in  my  breast,  it  was  a  wonder  to  me  that  she 
did  not  guess  it,  or  suspect  it — that  she  did  not  feel 


284  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

it.  Sometimes,  even  while  I  was  directly  speaKing 
to  her,  answering  some  question  that  she  had  asked 
me,  or  what  not,  my  heart  was  being  wrung  by  such 
strong  emotions,  it  seemed  as  though  she  could  not 
help  but  divine  them.  It  was  hard  work,  keeping  this 
constant  guard  over  myself,  wearing  this  mask.  But, 
of  course,  I  was  in  duty  bound  to  wear  it.  The 
relief  was  immense  when  I  could  get  away  by  my- 
self, and  let  it  drop  off.  Away  by  myself,  I  could, 
any  how,  be  myself — lead  my  own  life,  without  dis- 
sembling. 

"  My  own  life — what  was  it  like  ?  Well,  out- 
wardly it  was  a  life  of  silence  and  inaction.  My 
real  life  was  an  inward  life — lived  in  my  own  heart. 
My  heart  was  like  a  furnace.  Shut  up  there,  my 
love,  my  remorse,  my  despair  at  the  past,  my  hope- 
lessness of  the  future,  a  hundred  nameless,  restless, 
futile  fears  and  longings,  burned  steadily  all 
day  long  from  day  to  day.  Sometimes  one  emotion 
would  be  paramount,  sometimes  another.  Some- 
times memory  would  take  possession  of  me  ;  and, 
seated  at  my  studio  window,  with  my  one  relic  of 
you  clasped  in  my  hand,  I  would  go  back,  and  live 
over  again  all  that  had  passed  between  us,  from  the 
day  when  I  first  saw  you,  down  to  the  day  when,  in 
this  same  room,  I  had  put  you  from  me.  Do  you 
remember  that  day — the  day  I  first  saw  you  ?  Do 
you  remember  our  first  speech  together  ?  And  how 
awkward  I  was  ?  and  embarrassed  ?  Do  you  re- 
member the  night  of  the  party — New  Year's  Eve — 
when  the  heel  of  your  slipper  broke  off  ?     And  how 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  285 

jealous  I  was  ?  And  how  angry  you  got  with  me  ? 
And  how  you  scolded  me  ?  And  then — in  the  car- 
riage, going  home  ?  Do  you  remember  your  birth- 
day ?  and  mine  ?  The  silk  handkerchief  you  embroid- 
ered for  me  with  my  initials  ?  The  concerts  we 
used  to  go  to  together  ?  and  the  little  suppers  after- 
ward ?  The  books  we  read  together  ?  Detmold? 
The  Portrait  of  a  Lady  ?  The  poems  you  were 
so  fond  of  ?  The  letters  we  used  to  write  to  each 
other,  even  when  we  were  going  to  see  each  other 

the  very  same  day  ? Or,   perhaps, 

instead  of  sitting  still  here  at  my  studio  window,  I 
would  leave  the  house,  and  go  for  a  walk  in  the  old 
places — the  places  that  were  associated  with  our 
love,  and  now  for  me  were  sorrowfully  consecrated 
by  it.  I  would  walk  up  Eighth  Avenue,  over  the 
ground  that  I  had  used  to  cover  every  time  I  went 
to  see  you  ;  would  cross  the  great  circle  at  Fifty- 
ninth  Street ;  would  come  within  eye-shot  of  your 
door,  look  up  at  your  window,  recall  the  time  when 
1  had  had  right  of  entrance,  wonder  what  you  were 
doing  now  ;  would  enter  the  park,  and  even  seek 
out  our  pine-trees,  and  stay  for  a  while  there  in 
their  shadow — there,  where—  !  Do  you  remember  ? 
You  may  imagine  whether  this  was  bitter-sweet. 
To  go  back  to  the  time  v/hen  you  had  been  mine, 
wholly  mine,  and  live  over  all  the  rapture  of  that  time, 
in  all  its  minute,  intimate  details  ;  and  then,  with  an 
infinite  hunger  for  you  gnawing  in  my  heart,  to  re- 
turn to  the  present,  look  into  the  future,  and  realize 
that  I,  by  my  own  act,  had  let  you  go,  had  lost  you 


286  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

forever  !  You  may  imagine  with  what  woe  and  fury, 
deep  and  frantic,  and  yet  dumb,  I  would  recall  and 
repeat  to  myself  that  verse  of  Rossetti's  poetry  : 
'  Could  we  be  so  now  ? '  And  there  was  the  truth, 
the  relentless  truth,  for  me  to  confront,  and 
reconcile  myself  to,  if  I  could  :  '  Not  if  all  beneath 
heaven's  pall  lay  dead  but  I  and  thou,  could  we  be 
so  now  ! '  The  truth  which,  as  I  said,  was  like  a 
mountain  of  granite,  separating  you  and  me.  Oh, 
but  at  other  times  I  could  not  believe  that  the  truth 
7vas  the  truth.  It  was  too  cruel.  It  was  incred- 
ible. It  must  be  some  hideous  hallucination 
— some  nightmare,  that  I  should  sooner  or  later 
wake  up  from.  I  could  not  believe  that  it  was  in  the 
possible  order  of  nature  for  a  man  and  a  w^oman  to 
have  loved  each  other  as  you  and  I  had  loved 
each  other,  and  yet  to  have  become  so  utterly 
lost  to  each  other  as  it  now  seemed  that  we  were  ; 
for  two  human  lives  to  have  been  so  perfectly  fused 
together,  blended  together  like  two  colors  upon  my 
palette,  and  yet  afterward  to  have  become  so  com- 
pletely rent  asunder.  I  could  not  believe  it  possible 
for  my  soul  to  yearn  toward  you  and  thirst  for  you 
constantly,  as  it  did,  and  yet  be  debarred  forever 
from  any  sort  of  communion  with  you.  It  seemed 
as  though  somehow,  sometime,  somewhere,  we  must 
come  together — you  and  I  once  more  ! — and  all  our 
sorrow  be  swept  away  by  the  great  joy  of  our 
reunion.  Oh,  Christine,  if  it  might  be  so  !  If  only 
it  might  be  so  !  At  these  moments  my  imagination 
would  break  the  bonds  of  reason  and  fly  off  in  day- 


THE   YOKE   OF   THE   THORAH.  287 

dreams,  long,  delicious  flights  of  fancy,  visiting 
wondrous  air-castles  where  you  and  I  dwelt  together 
— only  shortly  to  drop  back  upon  the  awful  reality. 
The  reality  :  I  married,  and  all  your  love  for  me, 
your  priceless  love  for  me,  by  my  fault,  turned  to 
horror  and  hatred.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  reality, 
in  the  very  teeth  of  it,  I  w^ould  think  :  '  Well,  what 
if  my  wife  should  die  ? '  As  long  as  I  am  telling 
you  the  truth,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  the  whole  truth, 
no  matter  how  bad  it  may  make  you  think  I  am. 
Yes,  I  would  say  :  '  What  if  my  wife  should  die  ? ' 
And  then  I  would  repeat  to  myself  what  you  had 
once  said  about  that  very  same  verse  of  Rossetti's 
poetry  :  '  I  can't  understand  why  it  should  be  so 
absolutely  hopeless.  If  they  really  were  all  alone 
together,  and  she  saw  how  dreadfully  he  had 
suffered,  I  don't  understand  how  she  could  help 
forgiving  him  and  loving  him  again.'  And  then, 
for  an  instant  my  heart  would  bound  with  some- 
thing like  hope.  But  only  for  an  instant.  As  soon 
as  my  reason  could  make  itself  heard,  I  would 
acknowledge  that  I  had  sinned  too  much  ever  to 
expect  forgiveness  from  you.     No,  it  would  be  past 

human  nature At  still  other  times  my 

uppermost  feeling  would  be  simply  an  intense  desire 
to  see  you — not  for  any  special  purpose,  not  with  a 
view  to  speaking  to  you — simply  a  craving  for  the 
sight  of  your  face.  I  felt  that  if  I  could  only  look 
upon  you  for  an  instant,  catch  one  brief  glimpse  of 
you,  I  should  have  something  to  remember  and 
cherish,  something  for  my  heart  to  feed  upon,  which 


288  7'HE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

was  feeding  upon  itself.  It  would  be  an  agony. 
I  knew  that.  The  mere  thought  of  it  was  that. 
But  it  would  also  be  the  nearest  approach  to  a  joy 
that  I  could  expect.  So,  in  the  hope  that  I  might 
see  you,  I  would  stand  for  hours  on  the  corner  of 
your  street,  in  the  snow,  in  the  rain,  in  the  hot  sun 
or  cold  wind,  watching  the  door  of  your  house, 
waiting  for  you  to  pass  in  or  out — very  much  as,  in 
the  old  times,  I  would  watch  the  door  of  a  house 
where  I  knew  that  you  were  visiting,  and  wait  to 
join  you  at  your  exit.  (Do  you  remember  ?  And  how 
surprised  you  always  used  to  be?)  But  I  was 
always  disappointed.  I  never  once  saw  you.  I 
would  walk,  also,  in  those  quarters  of  the  city 
where  ladies  throng  to  do  their  shopping  ;  always 
searching  for  one  face  in  the  crowd,  but  never 
finding  it.  And  I  haunted  regularly  the  rehearsals 
at  Steinway  Hall  and  at  the  Academy  of  Music, 
closely  watching  the  audience  as  it  passed  out, 
always  hoping  that  my  experience  of  that  after- 
noon in  February  might  be  repeated,  invariably 
getting  my  labor  for  my  pains.  Where  did  you 
keep  yourself?  Oh,  sometimes  I  felt  that  I 
positively  could  not  live  without  a  sight  of  you. 
I  was  starving  for  a  sight  of  you.  Only  to  see  you 
for  one  little  moment  !  Only  to  feed  my  heart  with 
one  brief  glimpse  of  you  !  That  did  not  seem  such 
a  greedy  or  unreasonable  desire.  It  could  do  you 
no  harm,  provided  I  were  careful  not  to  be  seen,  as 
well  as  to  see  ;  and  I  meant  to  be  careful  about 
that.     It  could  do  no  living  creature  harm  ;  and  to 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  289 

me — oh,  to  me  it  would  be  like  a  drop  of  water  to 
a  man  consumed  by  thirst.  Then  my  wish  would 
become  the  father  of  my  thought.  I  would  say  : 
*  Surely,  if  I  go  out  now,  and  scour  the  city,  visiting 
every  spot  that  in  any  possibility  she  may  visit — the 
shops,  the  park.  Fourteenth  Street,  Twenty-third 
Street — surely,  at  some  point  our  paths  will  cross 
each  other,  and  I  shall  see  her.'  Well,  I  would  go 
out.  I  would  give  my  thought  a  trial.  I  would 
walk  the  streets  till  I  was  fagged  out  and  foot-sore. 
I  would  come  back  home,  with  a  heart  sick  for 
hope  deferred  ....  What  fears  tormented  me 
all  this  time,  you  will  surely  be  able  to  conceive  for 
yourself.  How  could  I  know  but  that  you  might 
have  died  ?  One  morning  at  the  breakfast-table  my 
uncle  glanced  up  from  his  newspaper,  and,  looking 
very  queerly  at  me,  said,  *■  Here,  Elias,  here's  news 
for  you.  An  old  friend  of  yours  is  dead.*  With  a 
horrible,  sick  heart-leap,  I  thought  :  *  Ah,  she  is 
dead.'  With  as  indifferent  an  air  as  I  could  put  on, 
I  asked,  *  Who  ? '  He  handed  me  the  paper, 
pointing  to  the  death  notices.  It  cost  me  all  my 
strength  to  look;  but  I  looked.  Yes;  there  I 
saw  your  name,  Redwood.  With  the  courage  of 
despair,  I  read  the  notice.  No  ;  it  was  not  you  ; 
it  was  your  father.  But  how  could  I  know — 
what  assurance  had  I — that  you  had  not  died, 
too,  without  my  chancing  to  learn  of  it  ?  The 
thought  that  you  might  have,  got  to  be  a  fixed 
idea  in  my  brain.  There  was  no  way  by  which 
I  could  find  out.     I  knew  nobody  to  whom  I  could 


290  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

apply  for  information.     But  at  last,  one  day,  by 
accident,  in  looking  through  a  newspaper,  I  again 
caught  sight  of  your  name,    Redwood.     Ah,  how 
the  sight  of  it  made  my  temples  throb  !  I  read  that 
you  had  been  appointed  a  teacher  in  the   Normal 
College.     So,  my  doubts  on  the  score  of  your  death 
were  set  at  rest.     It  may  seem  strange  to  you  that  I 
should  care  so  much  whether  you  live  or  die,  since 
already  you  are  as  far  and  as  hopelessly  removed 
from  me,  as  if  you  were  dead  ;  yet  the  thought  that 
you  may  die  is  the  blackest  of  all  thoughts  to  me. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  I  feel  that  so  long  as 
you  remain  in  it,  the  world  will  not  be  quite  a  blank 
wilderness  to   me.     There    is   still  some   warmth, 
some  beauty,  in  the  light  of  day,  which   would  go 
out  utterly  if  you  were  to  die.     So  long  as  you  live, 
/  want  to  live.     It  seems  as  though  there  were 
something  to  live  for  ;    though  1  can't  tell  what. 
But  if  you  were  to    die— oh,    God  !  if  she  were  to 
die  !     I  pray  God  to  put  an  end  to  my  life  at  once. 
Oh,    don't    die,    Christine.     Oh,    to   think  that    if 
you    were   to    die,    I    might    not    hear  of  it,    and 
might   go    on    living  !     To  think    that    I    can    do 
nothing  to  make  life  worth  living  for  you  !  Nothing 
to  protect  you  from  the  danger  of  death  !  To  think 
that  if  you  were  lying  on  a  sick  bed,  and  I  knew  it, 
I  could  do  nothing  to  soothe  you,  to  nurse  you  back 
to  health  !    Oh,  Christine  !    Oh,  God  grant  that  at 
least   we  may  both  live  until  I  have   finished  this 
letter,  and  you  have  read  it  !    I  must  not  die,  you 
must  not  die,  until  I  have  finished,  and  you  have 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  291 

read,  this  letter     ....     Once  in  a  great  while, 
once  in  six  or  eight  weeks,  or   even   seldomer,  I 
would  dream  about  you.     These  dreams  were  the 
one  luxury  of  my  life,  being,  as  they  were,  the  one 
means  of  escape   from  my  life  ;    reversing,  as  they 
did,  the  real  truth  of  my  life.     Every  night,  when 
I  lay  down  to   sleep,  I  would    think    to   myself  : 
*  Perhaps  to-night  I  shall  dream  of  her.     She  will 
come  to  me  in  my  dream.'     These  dreams  always 
annihilated  the  recent  past,  and  carried  me  back  to 
our  happy  days.     You  were  mine  again,  with  me 
again.     All  was  as  it  had  been.     My  lost  treasure 
was  for  a  brief  space  restored  to  me.     The  great 
joy  that  I  experienced   in  these  dreams,  I  can  not 
describe.      It    was    boundless,    unspeakable.      Of 
course,  to  wake  up  in  the  morning,  and  realize  that 
it  had  only  been  a  dream,  was  hard.     To  wake  up, 
and  look  around  me,  and  see  the  walls  of  my  bed- 
room, the  view  from  my  window,   and  breathe  the 
air,  and  listen  to  the  sounds,  of  the  morning,  all 
quite  unchanged,  just  as  they  had  used  to  be  in  the 
old  time  ;  and  then  to  think  how  com.pletely  all  the 
rest  was  changed — changed  beyond  possibility  of 
retrieval — you  and  your  love  lost  to  me  forever — 
that  was  hard  enough.     It  was  like  a  famished  man 
dreaming  of  food,  and   waking  up  to  find  a  stone 
in  his  hand.     And  yet — and  yet,  so  great  was  the 
rapture  of  them,    while    they    lasted,    my  dreams 
were  worth  purchasing  at  almost  any  price  ;    cer- 
tainly, at  the  price  of  the  pain  of  waking.     To  see 
you,  to  speak  to  you,  to  touch  you  ;    to  be  spoken 


292     THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH. 

to,  and  touched,  by  you  ;  to  hold  your  little,  soft, 
warm  hand  in  mine,  to  hear  the  music  of  your 
laughter,  to  breath  the  fragrance  that  the  air  caught 
from  your  presence,  to  gaze  into  the  depths  of 
your  eyes,  even  though  in  a  dream — it  was  better 
than  nothing,  wasn't  it  ?  Better  than  never,  dream- 
ing or  waking,  to  see  you  at  all.  So,  as  I  say,  every 
night  I  would  hope  to  dream  of  you — notwithstand- 
ing the  thought  that  perhaps  I  had  no  right  to 
dream  of  you,  that  you  perhaps  would  begrudge 
me  the  possession  of  you,  even  in  my  dreams  ;  but, 
as  I  say,  my  hope  was  rewarded  very  seldom — not 
oftener  than  once  in  every  six  or  eight  weeks. 
This  was  strange,  seeing  that  you  absorbed  my 
mind  constantly,  all  day  long,  every  day. 

"  I  believe  I  called  my  life  purposeless  and  hope- 
i'ess  ;  but  it  was  not  exactly  this.  One  purpose 
and  one  hope,  each  forlorn  enough,  I  clung  to. 
They  furnished  the  only  light  that  I  could  see,  as  I 
looked  forward  into  the  future.  The  same  hope 
and  purpose  that  animate  me  now,  as  I  write.  I 
purposed  and  I  hoped,  sometime,  by  some  means, 
to  let  you  know — to  let  you  know  what  I  have 
been  trying  to  let  you  know  by  all  this  writing  ; 
how  thoroughly  I  had  appreciated  my  own  bru- 
tality and  baseness,  how  intensely  I  had  realized 
your  suffering,  and  how  my  heart  was  devoured 
by  remorse,  despair,  and  love.  This  desire  to 
let  you  know,  was  the  one  constant  desire  that 
never  left  me.  It  was  like  an  extreme  thirst, 
that  would  not  let  me  rest  till  I  had  satisfied  it.     I 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  293 

could  not  understand  it.     Even  now  I  do  not  under- 
stand  it.     What  good  could  it  do  either    you  or 
me  ?     No  good  to  you,  surely  ;  for  the  most  that 
you  can  possibly  care  about,  in  regard  to  me,  is  to 
be  let  alone,  and  allowed  to  forget  me.     And  what 
good  to   me  ?     Would    it   give  you   back  to  me  ? 
Would  it  allay  my  remorse  ?     Not  unless  it  could 
undo  the  past,  and  blot  out  the  pain  I  had  caused 
you.     Would   it  rekindle  your  love  ?     I   might  as 
well  expect,  by  my  touch,  to  raise  the  dead,  as  ever, 
by  any  means,  to  rekindle  your  love.     Would  it 
even  win  for  me  your  forgiveness  ?     I  knew  that  it 
was  not  within  the  capacity  of  human  nature,  ever 
really,  from  the  bottom  of  the  heart,  without  a  res- 
ervation, to  forgive  such  wrong  as  I  had  done  to 
you.     This  was  what  my   reason    said  ;  and   yet, 
despite  all  this,  I  felt— and  still  feel,  and  can  not 
help  feeling — that   somehow   I  ought   to   let   you 
know,  that  it  was  only  right  to  let  you  know.     I 
longed  to  let  you  know.     That  is  the  substance  of 
it.     I   longed  to  let  you   know  ;  and   my  longing 
defied  my  reason,  just  as  hunger  defies  reason.     If 
I  could  only  let  you  know,  it  seemed   as  though 
both  you  and  I  should  then  be  able  to  find  some- 
thing like  peace  and  repose.     My  soul  ached  to 
unbosom  itself  before  you  ;  and  all  reasoning  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding,  my  instincts  told  me 
that  you,  as  well  as  I  myself,  would  be  happier— at 
least,  less  unhappy — afterward.     It  was  as  though  I 
had  something  big  and  heavy   in   my  heart,  that 
pressed  to  be  got  out  ;  that  would  strain  and  rack 


294  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

my  heart  until  it  tvas  got  out  ;  and  that  could  only 
be  got  out  by  letting  you  know.  I  suppose  this  is 
always  the  way,  when  a  man's  heart  is  full  of  con- 
scious guilt.  But  how  to  let  you  know  ?  Oh,  my 
impulses  answered  at  once.  They  said  :  '  Seek  her 
out.  Kneei  down  before  her.  Look  into  her  face. 
Touch  her  hand.  Give  it  vent — let  it  all  burst 
forth — in  one  good,  long,  satisfying  sob  !  Then, 
she  will  understand.  She  will  understand  what  is 
too  deep,  too  passionate,  for  any  speech.  Her 
heart  and  yours  will  be  at  rest.  This  anguish 
will  be  relieved.'  Oh,  how  my  temples  throb- 
bed, how  my  breath  quickened,  how  my  whole 
spirit  thrilled,  as  I  allowed  myself  to  shape 
that  thought.  You,  my  frail  darling,  whom  I  had 
hurt  so  !  You,  my  sweet  rose-lady,  whom  I  had 
torn,  and  crushed,  and  made  to  bleed  !  Christine, 
pale,  sad  Christine  !  To  spend  one  moment  weep- 
ing at  your  feet,  trying  a  little  to  soothe  and  com- 
fort and  console  you,  to  atone  a  little  for  the  sorrow 
I  had  caused  you,  to  pour  out  my  love  and  my 
remorse  before  you  !  Oh,  good  God  !  But  of 
course,  of  course,  I  knew  that  I  might  as  well  hope 
to  speak  with  one  who  was  dead,  I,  a  married  man, 
had  no  right,  even  in  my  own  secret  thoughts,  to 
wish  for  such  a  meeting  between  you  and  me. 
And  you,  despising  me,  you  would  fly  from  me, 
you  would  never  permit  me  to  draw  near  to  you. 
And  yet,  it  is  so  hard  to  reconcile  one's  self  to  the 
truth,  even  when  one  can  have  no  doubt  about  it, 
I  would  go  on  hoping,  in  spite  of  the  hopelessness, 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THOKAH.  295 

in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  had  no  right  to  hope- 
hoping  that  somehow  the  impossible  might  come  to 
pass.     But  at  the  same  time,  I  would  think  :  '  How 
else  ?     Is  there   any  other  way  ? '     Necessarily,  it 
occurred  to  me  to  write.     But  the  idea  of  writing 
was  repugnant.     I  never  could  tell  the  half  of  what 
I  had  to  tell  by  writing  ;  and  then,  what  assurance 
had  I  that  you  would  read  my  letter  ?    (What  assur- 
ance have  I,  even  now  ?)     So,  for  the  time  being,  I 
put  the  plan  of  writing  out  of  my  head  ;  and  went 
back,  and  asked  again  :    '  How  else  ? '  Was  there  no 
possible  method  by  which  I  could  let  you  know  what 
weighed    so    heavily,    so    heavily,  upon  my  mind  ? 
Sometimes   the  most  absurd  notions  would   seize 
hold  of  me,  with  all  the  force   of  realities.     For  a 
little  while,  this  would  become  not  merely  a  theory, 
as  of  a  thing  conceivable,  but  a  conviction,  as  of  a 
thing  actual  ;  that,  thinking  of  you  as  constantly 
and  as  intently  as  I    did,  by  some  occult  means 
in  nature,    my   spirit   was    enabled    to    transcend 
the  limitations  of  space  and  matter,  and  to  reach 
yours,   and  to   communicate   with   it.     For   hours 
at  a  stretch,  I  would  sit  here  at  my  studio  win- 
dow, harboring  this  delicious  fancy  :  that  now,  at 
this  very  moment,  by  the  operation  of  some  subtle 
psychic    force,  you    were    receiving    the  message 
which  my  heart  was  sending  you.     I  had  read  of 
such  things  in  wonder-tales,  even  in  serious  pseudo- 
scientific  treatises.     W^hy  might  there  not  be  some- 
thing in  them  ?     But,  as  I  have  said,  only  for  a  little 
while  could  a  fancy  like  this  hold  its  place.     In  a 


296  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

little  while  my  common-sense  would  assert  itself, 
and  bring  the  dismal  truth  looming  up  again  stark 
before  me.  All  of  a  sudden,  one  day,  I  thought  of 
my  painting.  It  made  my  pulse  leap.  It  seemed 
like  an  inspiration.  I  would  paint  a  picture  which 
— if  you  saw  it ;  and  if  I  sent  it  to  the  exhibition, 
you  would  very  likely  see  it — which  would  tell  you 
the  whole  story.  In  a  fever  of  impatience  to  get 
ttie  picture  begun,  and  without  having  stopped  to 
determine  what  the  picture  was  to  be,  I  procured 
canvas,  paints,  brushes.  Then  I  paused,  and 
asked  :  '  But  what  shall  I  paint  ? '  It  did  not 
require  much  thinking,  to  make  the  futility  of  the 
whole  design  clear  to  me.  Unless  I  could  tear  my 
heart  out,  and  paint  //,  with  all  the  fierce  passions 
fermenting  in  it,  I  might  as  well  not  paint  any  thing 
at  all.  Now,  at  last,  you  see,  I  have  returned  to 
my  former  plan  of  writing.  I  have  done  so,  in 
despair  of  any  other  means,  and  because  it  is  no 
longer  possible  for  me  to  hold  back.  I  have  held 
back  until  I  am  tired  out,  worn  out.  I  have  been 
writing  at  this  letter,  from  time  to  time,  during  the 
past  fortnight.  To-day  is  Friday,  February  13th. 
I  have  much  left  to  say.  As  soon  as  it  is  finished, 
I  shall  send  it  to  you." 

"  As  soon  as  it  is  finished  !  "  It  was  never 
finished.  Events  now  supervened,  which  inter- 
rupted it,  and  prevented  its  completion.  Those 
events,  it  will  be  my  business,  in  the  concluding 
chapters  of  this  story,  to  relate. 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH  297 


XX. 


WHEN  Elias  professed  to  recognize  that,  no 
matter  how  detestable  his  marriage  might 
now  have  become  to  him,  he  was  bound  in  all  honor 
and  decency  to  do  nothing  that  could  make  his 
wife  unhappy,  he  certainly,  so  far  as  he  was  con- 
scious of  his  own  intentions,  meant  what  he  said. 
Of  his  free  will,  he  had  married  a  perfectly  innocent 
woman.  He  must  not  allow  the  burden  of  his 
guilt  to  bear  in  the  slightest  degree  upon  her 
shoulders.  He  must  abide  exactly  by  the  letter, 
and,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  by  the  spirit,  of  his 
marriage  vows.  He  purposed  to  do  so  ;  and,  so 
far  as  he  had  fathomed  it,  his  purpose  was  honest 
and  earnest.  Yet,  at  the  same  time,  inevitably,  his 
life  at  home  galled  and  irked  him  more  than  a 
little.  His  daily  association  with  Tillie,  with  Mrs. 
Morgenthau,  and  with  the  rabbi,  was  both  irrita- 
ting and  enervating.  He  had  constantly,  as  he  put 
it,  to  wear  a  mask  ;  to  sham,  to  play  a  part,  to  act 
a  lie.  He  had  to  counterfeit  emotions  and  interests 
which  he  was  very  remote  from  feeling,  and  to 
conceal  with  utmost,  unflagging  vigilance  those  that 
actually  dominated  his  heart.  He  had  to  pretend 
to  be  cheerful  and  sympathetic.  He  had  to  keep 
the  one  vital  reality  of  his  existence  closely  locked 
down,  a  secret  prisoner  in  his  breast.  Shamming, 
through  practiced  in  a  laudable  cause,  is,  as  those 
who  have  tried  it  can  testify,  a  sufficiently  sorry 


2  9^  THE    YOKE    OF   THE    THORAH. 

and  thankless  business.  Elias  sickened  of  it.  The 
never-relaxing  guard  that  he  was  obliged  to  main- 
tain over  himself,  on  the  perpetual  qui-i-ive  lest  by 
some  momentary  inadvertence  he  should  betray 
himself,  wearied  and  discouraged  him.  He  became 
impatient,  restive.  In  certain  moods,  he  would 
reflect  :  ''  It  is  a  part  of  my  punishment.  I  have 
brought  it  upon  myself.  I  deserve  it.  I  must 
submit  to  it  unrebelliousl}^,  in  silence."  But  Elias 
was  not  by  temperament  a  Spartan  ;  and  more 
frequently,  longing  ardently  for  respite,  he  would 
cry  :  "  If  only  for  a  little  while  I  could  escape  ! 
If  only  I  could  go  away,  and,  in  solitude,  for 
a  little  while,  give  the  rein  to  my  own  true  self — 
live  my  own  true  life,  without  this  eternal  necessity 
of  suppression  and  deceit  !  "  The  actor  wanted 
to  withdraw  for  a  moment  out  of  view,  behind  the 
scenes,  there,  for  a  m.oment,  to  drop  his  stage- 
smile  and  stage-manner.  Not  unnaturally,  it  may 
be  conceded.  But  the  question  was  one  of  method. 
How  ?  Consistently  with  his  resolution  not  to  make 
his  wife  unhappy,  how  could  it  be  done  ?  Gradu- 
all)^  a  plan,  simple  of  conception,  and  easy  of  exe- 
cution, got  shaped  in  Elias's  mind.  The  plan 
itself,  to  be  sure,  involved  a  certain  amount  of  false- 
hood ;  but  falsehood  which,  Elias  concluded,  was 
innocuous,  and,  under  the  circumstances,  justifia- 
ble. 

On  Monday,  February  i6,  1885,  at  the  break- 
fast table,  he  made  the  following  announcement  to 
the  persons  there  assembled  :  '*  To-morrow  I  am 


THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH.  299 

going  out  of  town.  I  am  going  down  into  the 
country  on  Long  Island,  to  do  a  little  winter  land- 
scape painting.  I  shall  be  gone  perhaps  a  week, 
perhaps  a  fortnight." 

No  opposition  was  offered.  Such  questions  as 
were  asked,  he  had  anticipated,  and  so  answered 
with  consummate  glibness.  Next  morning  a  car- 
riage drew  up  before  the  door.  Elias,  with  his 
trunk  and  his  traps,  got  into  it,  and  was  driven  off. 
As  the  carriage  turned  the  corner,  he  could  see 
Tillie  lingering  on  the  stoop,  looking  after  him. 
His  conscience  smote  him  gently  for  an  instant  ; 
and  he  renewed  his  vow  never  to  do  any  thing 
that  could  bring  sorrow  upon  his  wife.  "  Poor,  little, 
light-hearted  thing,"  he  soliloquized.  "  It  is  easy 
to  satisfy  her — '  pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with 
a  straw.'  "  And  then  he  dismissed  her  from  his 
mind.  It  is  probable  that,  so  long  as  he  lived,  he 
never  once  thought  of  her  again. 

"I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  the  light-hearted  and 
easily  satisfied  Tillie,  as  she  re-entered  the  house, 
confessed  to  her  mother,  ''  but  I  feel  just  as  blue  as  if 
he  had  gone  away  forever,  instead  of  only  for  a  fort- 
night. I  feel  just  perfectly  wretched.  I've  been 
feeling  bad  enough  for  ever  and  ever  so  long  ;  but 
this  is  just  the  last  straw.  I  don't  believe  he  cares 
for  me  the  least  bit  in  the  world."  And  she  buried 
her  face  in  her  mother's  bosom,  and  had  a  good, 
long  cry. 

Elias's  carriage  drove  neither  to  a  railway-station, 
nor  to  a  steamboat-pier.     It  drove  to  a  lofty,  red- 


300  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

brick  apartment-house  (for  bachelors),  in  West 
Forty-second  Street,  "  The  Reginald,"  where 
Elias  had  hired  a  furnished  suite  of  rooms  by  the 
month.  The  falsehood  involved  by  his  plan  had 
consisted  in  saying  that  he  was  going  to  the  coun- 
try. He  had  no  idea  of  quitting  the  city.  Just  so 
long  as  Christine  Redwood  remained  in  New  York, 
New  York  would  be  the  only  habitable  spot  on 
earth  to  Elias  Bacharach. 

The  clerk  of  the  apartment-house  conducted 
Elias  to  his  quarters,  and  left  him  there. 

Elias  locked  his  door  behind  the  clerk.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  flung  himself  full  length  upon  the 
floor,  and  gave  vent  to  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  At 
last  he  was  alone,  all  alone,  and  free.  At  last  he 
had  got  clear  of  the  disguise,  which,  like  a  strait- 
waistcoat,  he  had  been  compelled  to  wear  for 
upwards  of  a  year.  I  don't  know  how  long  he  con- 
tinued to  lie  there  upon  the  floor.  I  don't  know 
how  many  times  he  sobbed  out  her  name  :  "  Chris- 
tine !     Christine  !     Christine  !  " 

Finally,  however,  he  rose  to  his  feet,  brushed  off 
and  smoothed  down  his  clothing,  and  descended 
to  the  office  of  the  establishment,  where  he  had 
some  business  to  transact  with  the  proprietor. 
Afterward,  he  meant  to  go  for  a  walk,  and  feast  his 
eyes  for  a  while  upon  the  house  in  which  she  dwelt. 
He  knew  this  house  very  well.  It  was  in  Forty- 
eighth  Street,  between  Sixth  and  Seventh  Avenues. 
Many  and  many  a  time,  during  the  past  few  months, 
he  had  gone  there,  after  nightfall,  and  watched  the 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    T HO  RAH.  3^1 

lights  glow  in  the  windows,  and  wondered  which 
of  the  lights  was  hers.  By  day,  he  never  approached 
nearer  than  the  nearest  corner.  He  did  not  wish 
to  be  seen  by  her.  He  conjectured  that  the  sight 
of  him  might  distress  her.  Now,  he  meant,  after 
finishing  his  business  with  the  proprietor,  to  go  and 
stand  on  that  corner  for  awhile,  and  enjoy  the  lux- 
ury of  staring  at  the  chocolate-colored  fagade  of 
her  dwelling-house. 

He  found  the  proprietor  engaged  in  «onversa- 
tion  with  a  gentleman.  He  took  a  position,  there- 
fore, at  a  respectful  distance,  and  waited  till  their 
colloquy  should  end.  He  paid  no  heed  to  the  gen- 
tleman's appearance  ;  but  afterward  he  recalled 
him  vaguely  as  tall,  fair-complexioned,  rather 
athletic-looking,  and  presumably  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  thirty  years  of  age.  Pretty  soon  the  gen- 
tleman  put  on  his  hat,  and  left  the  room. 

"  Did  you  notice  that  party  I  was  talking  with  ? " 
the  proprietor  inquired  of  Elias. 

"  Not  especially,"  Elias  replied.     "  Why  ?  " 

"  Handsome  chap,  and  one  of  the  whitest  in  this 
town.  Civil  Engineer,  of  the  name  of  Hosmer— 
R.  E.  Hosmer.  Got  an  office  down  in  the  Astor 
House.  He's  lived  here  with  me  going  on  three 
years.  But  this  is  his  last  day.  To-morrow  he 
gets  married." 

"  Ah  ?  "  returned  Elias,  with  a  perfunctory  affec- 
tation of  interest. 

"  Yes,  sir,  gets  married,  and  sets  up  house-keep- 
ing. So  I  lose  him  ;  and  I'm  mighty  sorry  to,  I  can 


302  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THOKAH. 

tell  you.  He's  a  gentleman,  from  the  word  go. 
But  he's  caught  a  stunning  pretty  girl  for  a  wife, 
now,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  He  had  her  here 
one  night,  along  with  some  friends,  to  dinner  ;  and 
he  took  me  up,  and  introduced  me  to  her.  She's 
what  I  call  a  daisy,  straight  out.  Well,  sir,  to- 
morrow morning  they're  going  to  be  married  ;  and 
he  said  he'd  have  invited  me  to  the  wedding,  only 
it's  strictly  private.  No  admittance  except  on  busi- 
ness, you  understand.  No  guests  ;  nothing.  Well, 
that's  all  right,  I  suppose,  if  people  like  it  that  way. 
No  law  against  it,  any  how.  But  you  see,  I  wanted 
to  send  her  some  sort  of  a  little  present,  being  so 
friendly  with  him,  you  understand  ;  and  so  I 
thought  awhile,  and  fmally  I  got  this."  (The  pro- 
prietor went  to  his  safe,  and,  coming  back  in  a  min- 
ute, exhibited  a  necklace  of  amber  beads.)  "  I  got 
this.  Tidy,  ain't  it  ?  But  do  you  know,  I'll  be 
hanged  if  I  hadn't  forgotten  to  ask  him  for  her  ad- 
dress, until  just  this  instant.  There's  time  yet, 
however  ;  and  I'll  send  it  up  by  one  of  the  boys 
right  away.  Let's  see.  Ah,  yes  ;  here  it  is.  He 
wrote  it  out  on  this  envelope." 

Elias  took  the  envelope  which  his  communica- 
tive landlord  offered  him,  and  glanced  indifferently 
at  it.     In  large,  clear  lettters,  was  written  : 
"  Miss  Christine  Redwood, 
"  No.  —  West  48th  Street, 

"  City." 

Elias   did   not   start,  nor    exclaim,  nor  indeed 
make  any  sign  by  which  an  observer  could  have 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  Z'^d^ 

guessed  that  what  he  had  just  read  had  been  of  any 
special  import  to  him.  He  turned  perhaps  a  littJe 
pale.  Perhaps  his  lips  twitched  a  little.  Perhaps 
his  attitude  assumed  a  certain  rigidity.  But  it  was 
with  an  air  of  perfect  composure  that  he  said  to  the 
proprietor,  "  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  forgot  something. 
I  must  go  back  to  my  room  The  matter  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  you  about — I'll  be  down  again  about  it, 
later."  With  an  air  of  perfect  composure  ;  for,  at 
this  moment,  like  a  man  who  has  been  shot,  EHas 
was  conscious  of  very  little,  save  a  sudden  daze  and 
bewilderment.  He  knew  in  a  dull  way  that  some- 
thing serious  had  happened  to  him.  There  had 
been,  all  at  once,  a  shock,  a  thrill  that  pierced  and 
transfixed  him  ;  and  then  had  come  a  strange 
stunned  feeling  ;  and  now — now,  he  must  get 
away,  by  himself,  back  m  his  own  room,  at  once. 

He  entered  the  elevator,  and  was  carried  up- 
stairs. 

Automatically,  he  heard  the  elevator-man  say  : 
"  Fine  day,  sir." 

Automatically,  he  responded,  "  Yes." 

"But  cold.  Coldest  of  the  season,  I  guess. 
Below  zero,  sir." 

"  Indeed." 

"Well,  here  you  are,  sir.     Sixth." 

"  Thanks." 

Automatically,  he  stepped  out  of  the  elevator, 
and  found  his  way  through  the  corridor  to  his  door. 
Automatically,  he  unlocked  the  door,  passed  it, 
locked  it  behind  him.     But   then,  of  a  sudden,  his 


304  THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH. 

Strength  deserted  him,  his  sensations  rushed  upon 
him,  and  overpowered  him.  He  dropped  upon  the 
first  chair  he  came  to,  and  sat  there,  all  huddled  up, 
and  staring  blindly,  like  a  drunken  man.  Indeed, 
it  was  not  unlike  a  drunken  man  that  he  felt.  He 
felt  deathly  sick.  He  felt  an  oppression  upon  his 
lungs,  and  had  to  labor  hard  for  his  breath.  His 
head  sagged  forward  heavily  upon  his  chest  ;  his 
brain  went  spinning  furiously  round  and  round. 
His  ears  rang.  A  blackish,  half-opaque  mist  hung 
before  his  eyes,  in  which  the  objects  about  him 
swam  dimly,  bewilderingly,  to  and  fro.  The  house 
seemed  to  be  rocking  on  its  foundations.  In  his 
breast — something  —  a  lump,  big  and  hot,  like  a 
coal  of  fire  —  was  struggling  frantically,  in  spas- 
modic leaps,  as  if  to  break  away,  and  get  outside. 
At  one  instant  he  thought  it  would  choke  him  ;  it 
had  sprung  up  into  his  throat.  Again,  he  thought 
it  would  rend  his  very  bone  and  flesh  asunder, 
with  such  force  it  dashed  itself  against  the  walls 
that  shut  it  in.  Then,  for  another  instant,  it  fell 
back,  and  was  quiet  ;  but  then  he  thought  it  would 
burn  him  up,  with  its  intense,  angry  heat.  Liquid 
fire  went  circling  through  his  veins,  scalding  them, 
and  causing  the  uttermost  parts  of  his  body  to 
throb  and  tingle. 

So,  for  it  may  have  been  a  half  hour,  he  sat  there 
upon  that  chair,  limp,  motionless,  like  one  stricken 
impotent  and  senseless  by  too  much  wine.  In  the 
end,  however,  all  at  once,  as  if  stung,  he  sprang  up, 
and  began  striding  wildly,  with  unsteady  gait,  back 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  305 

and  forth  across  his  floor.  He  moaned  aloud. 
Sometimes  he  would  wring  his  hands  together. 
Sometimes  he  would  press  them  to  his  temples.  By 
and  by  he  began  to  talk  to  himself.  His  voice  was 
husky,  his  articulation  indistinct.  His  words  came 
in  spurts.  A  spectator  would  certainly  have  put 
him  down  for  drunk. 

"  She  is  going  to  be  married  ....  married 
....  do  you  understand  ?  Going  to  become  the 
wife  of  another  man.  Another  man  is  going  to 
possess  her  ....  do  you  understand  ?  That  man 
....  you  saw  him  down  stairs  ....  he  is  going 
to  possess  her.  She  ....  Christine  ....  oh, 
God  help  me  !  .  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  has  seen  her, 
been  in  her  presence,  heard  her  voice,  looked  into 
her  eyes,  touched  her  hand,  kiss  ....  yes,  very 
likely  ....  kissed  her  ....  this  very  day.  Per- 
haps he  is  with  her  at  this  instant  ....  now  .... 
he,  with //^r  ....  do  vou  understand  ?  While  vou 
....  I  ....  I  ...  .  Oh,  have  mercy  on  me. 
Strike  me  dead  ....  And  to-morrow  morning  she 
is  going  to  marry  him,  to-morrow  morning  .... 
going  to  be  married  ....  Well,  well,  it's  all  right 
It's  none  of  my  business.  Yes,  it's  all  right.  She 
can  do  as  she  pleases.  I  can't  help  it.  It's  not  my 
affair  ....  Only  ....  only,  I  want  to  know 
....  I  want  to  know,  why  ?  Why  is  she  going  to 
marry  him  ?  Only  tell  me  that :  why  does  she 
want  to  marry  him  ?  Not  for  love.  No  !  She 
can't  love  him.  It  would  be  impossible  that  she 
should  love  him.    Don't  tell  me  she  loves  him.    No, 


J 


06  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 


no  !  Why,  I  say,  look — look  at  how  she  loved  me 
— how  passionately,  how  entirely — with  what  com- 
plete, absolute  surrender  of  herself  !  Why,  after  a 
woman  has  loved  one  man  that  way,  I  tell  you,  it  is 
impossible,  it  is  not  in  nature,  for  her  ever  to  love 
another — really  love  another  ....  No  !....! 
don't  care  what  her  feeling  toward  me  may  be 
.  .  .  .  hatred  ....  indifference  ....  1  don't 
care  what  ....  I  know  she  does  not  ....  I 
know  she  never  can  ....  love  him  ....  love 
any  body  else.  I  know  it.  It  would  be  against  na- 
ture— impossible  ....  Oh,  it's  laughable.  The 
idea  !  that  she  should  ever  feel  toward  any  one  as 
she  felt  toward  nie  !  Such  perfect  confidence 
.  .  .  .  such  perfect  giving  of  herself  !  ....  Chris- 
tine :  Oh,  do  you  remember,  Christine  ?  Do  you 
remember  how  you  loved  me  ?  How  your  eyes 
burned  with  love,  and  your  fingers  clung  with  love, 
and  your  bosom  rose  and  fell  with  love,  and  your 
voice  thrilled  with  love  ?  And  all  our  unutterable 
intimate  joy  ?  And  how  you  said  it  was  like  an- 
guish, it  was  so  keen  ?  And  ....  and  ....  Do 
you  remember  !  And  now,  do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  can  ever  be  like  that  with  another  man — not 
me — with  ki7n — with  anybody  ?  Like  that  ?  Lov- 
ing like  that  ?  Oh,  no,  no  !  Monstrous  !  Impos- 
sible. No,  no,  you  don't  love  him  like  that.  No- 
body could  love  twice  like  that.  You  never  can 
love  any  one  like  that — any  one  but  me.  Me  !  I 
am  the  only  man  who  has  ever  tasted  that  sweet- 
ness— who  ever  shall  taste  it.     He — oh,  the  poor 


THE   YOKE  OF   THE   THORAH.  307 

fool  and  beggar  !  He  may  be  married  to  you  a 
thousand  years.  He  will  never  taste  that — which  I 
have  tasted — never  get  even  the  perfume  of  it. 
Never — never  !  .  .  .  .  And  yet  ....  and  yet,  she 
is  going  to  marry  him.  Oh,  Christine,  tell  me — for 
mercy's  sake,  tell  me — why  do  you  marry  him  ?  Why 
does  she  want  to  marry  him  ?  Oh,  there  may  be 
a  hundred  reasons.  But  not  for  love.  I  am  sure, 
not  for  love.  Is  marriage  a  proof  of  love  ?  Did 
I  marry  for  love  ?  She  pities  him.  That's  it.  He 
loves  her.  He  has  worked  upon  her  sympathies. 
In  despair — hopeless  of  any  happiness  for  herself 
— out  of  pity — she  has  consented  to  marry  him. 
He  has  importuned  her — tired  her  with  his  en- 
treaties— until   she  has  consented But  not 

for  love  ....  Don't  tell  me  she  loves  him — that 
my  own  beautiful  Christine — dark-eyed  Christine — 
loves  another  man — that  man.  Oh,  the  fool,  the 
complacent  fool,  if  he  dares  to  imagine  that  !  That 
she — my  glorious  Christine — mine,  I  say — once 
mine,  always  mine — my  own — wholly  mine — weren't 
our  very  souls  burned  together,  into  one  ? — that 
she  loves  him  !  Why,  it  makes  me  laugh  !  The 
poor,  fatuous  fool  !  .  .  .  .  And  yet  ....  she  .... 
she  is  going  to  marry  him  ....  to  be  his  wife  .... 
He  is  going  to  possess  her  ....  have  the  right  to 
see  her,  hear  her,  touch  her,  every  day  ....  while 
I — I — Oh,  no  !,  He  thinks  so,  does  he  ?  I  will 
show  him.  I  will  defeat  him  yet.  It  is  not  yet  too 
late.  I  will  go  to  her — I — now — at  once — I  will  go 
to  her — to  Christine — yes — and  see  her,  and  speak 


3o8  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

to  her,  and  touch  her — take  her  in  my  arms — oh, 
God  ! — and  tell  her  how  I  love  her — and  how  I  have 
suffered — and  how  I  have  never  ceased  to  love  her — 
and  pour  it  all  out  at  her  feet — all  my  love  and 
sorrow  and  remorse — at  her  feet — now — to-day — 
before  it  is  too  late — and  she — she  will  forgive  me, 
and  forget  all  the  pain  I  have  caused  her — all  the 
pain  and  shame — poor  Christine,  sweet  little  Chris- 
tine, whom  I  hurt  so  ! — she  will  forgive  me,  and — 
and  love  me  again — she  will  love  me — she  does  love 
me — she  7nust  love  me,  I  tell  you — yes — she  will 
come  to  me,  and  love  me — and  we — she  and  I — we 
will  go  away  together — to  Europe — to  South 
America — somewhere — anywhere — she  and  I — 
Christine  and  I — together — we  will  go  away  to- 
gether, and — and  ....  Oh,  what  am  I  saying  ? 
God  forgive  me  !  What  a  low,  miserable  wretch  I 
am  !  As  if  I  had  any  power,  any  right  !  No,  no  ! 
she  will  marry  him.  He  will  be  happy.  Perhaps 
he  will  make  her  happy.  Why  not  ?  He  is  good 
and  honest  and  well-to-do.  He  loves  her,  and  will 
be  kind  to  her.  Why  shouldn't  he  make  her  happy  ? 
Oh,  Christine.  I  hope  he  will.  If  you  will  only 
be  happy,  then  I  shan't  mind.  God  bless  her,  and 
make  her  happy.  She  will  marry  him,  and  she  will 
love  him  in  a  certain  way,  in  a  quiet,  peaceful  way, 
and  she  will  have  children,  and  be  contented,  and 
live  in  comfort  and  peace — quietly — gently — for- 
getting me,  and  the  pain  I  caused  her,  and — Oh, 
God  !  Oh,  God  !  My  punishment  is  greater  than  I 
can  bear." 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH,  3^9 

He  fell  in  an  inert  mass  upon  the  floor,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  moaned  again 
incoherently  ;  until  again,  all  at  once,  he  sprang  to 
his  feet,  and,  striding  back  and  forth,  as  before, 
again  began  to  talk  to  himself. 

"  I  must  see  her.  I  must  see  her,  and  let  her 
know.  I  must  see  her  to-day — before  to-morrow 
morning — before  she  is  married.  After  that,  after 
she  is  married,  as  she  will  be  to-morrow  morning — 
after  that,  I  can  never  see  her.  She  will  have  no 
right  to  let  me  see  her — no  right  to  think  of  me, 
to  hear  from  me — a  married  woman — another  man's 
wife  ....  The  letter — the  letter  I  have  been 
writing  to  her — she  will  never  read  it.  Waste  time — 
waste  paper — waste  .effort.  No  use  sending  it.  No 
use  finishing  it.  After  to-morrow  morning,  after 
she  is  married,  she  will  have  no  right  to  receive  it 

— to  receive  any  thing  from  me Oh,  I  say, 

I  must  see  her.  If  I  am  ever  to  see  her,  ever  to 
let  her  know,  it  must  be  to-day.  To-day,  or  never. 
After  to-day — to-morrow — a  married  woman — she 
can  never  let  me  approach  her — never — never  .... 
Yes,  to-day — right  away — at  once.  I  must  see  her 
right  away,  at  once  ....  Oh,  Love  !  To  think  of 
seeing  you — really  seeing  you — and  speaking  to  you  ! 
Oh,  Christine — to-day,  this  very  day,  at  last  !  .  .  .  . 
There,  there  !  Let  me  be  calm.  Let  me  think. 
How  shall  I — how  can  I  manage  it  ?  To  see  her  ? 
Let  me  think." 

He    pressed    his  hands  hard  against  his  brow, 
beneath  which  his  brain  seemed  to  have  become  a 


3IO  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    THORAH. 

whirlpool,  sucking  into  black  confusion  every 
faculty  for  thought  he  had.  He  repeated  two  or 
three  times  :  ''  Let  me  think  ;  "  and  kept  crushing 
his  brow  between  his  hands,  to  subdue,  if  he  could, 
that  dizzy,  stupid  feeling.  At  last  he  went  on, 
stammeringly,  and  in  a  voice  which,  from  husky, 
had  grown  thin  and  feeble  : — 

"  I  must  not  go  to  see  her  at  her  house.  No,  that 
would  not  do.  That  would  not  be  fair  to  her. 
What  would  people  think,  who  saw  me  ?  They 
might  overhear  what  I  said  to  her.  I  might  not  be 
able  to  see  her  alone.  I  might — I  might  meet  him 
there.  No,  I  must  not  go  to  her  house.  But  this 
is  what  I  will  do.  I  will  write  her  a  note — a  little 
short  note — asking  her — begging  her — to  let  me 
have  five  minutes'  speech  with  her — to  come  and 
give  me  five  minutes*  speech  with  her — in  Central 
Park — among  our  pine-trees  in  Central  Park.  She 
will  do  it.  It  is  such  a  little  thing,  I  am  sure  she 
will  do  it.  She  can't  have  the  heart  to  refuse  to  do 
it.  No,  no  !  .  .  .  .  There  !  I  will  write  the  note, 
and  send  it  at  once.  In  half  an  hour  she  will  re- 
ceive it.  She  will  come  right  away.  Within  two 
hours — within  two  hours  from  now — I — I  shall — I 
shall  see  her  !  " 

With  about  as  clear  a  realization  of  what  he  was 
doing  as  he  might  have  had  if  he  had  indeed  been 
the  worse  for  drink,  so  dazed  and  bewildered  did 
he  feel,  he  opened  his  trunk,  and  took  from  it  the 
materials  for  writing.  Then,  seating  himself  at  the 
table,  with  a  drunken  man's  comprehension  of  what 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  31^ 

he  wrote,  upon  paper  that  swayed  boisterously  up 
and  down  under  his  eyes,  he  dashed  off  the  follow- 
ing note  : — 

"  Christine  :  Just  learned  I   have  just  learned 
that  to-morrow  morning  that  you  are   going  to  be 
married  to-morrow  morning.     Please  read  this  note 
through.     There  is  nothing  in  it  which   will  harm 
you  to  read.     It  is  essential  to  my  peace  of  mind 
that,  before  you  are  married,  I  should  say  some- 
thing   to  you,  see   you   and    say  something,  hvc 
words,  which  it  will  not'  take  me  take  five   min- 
utes for  me  to  say,  and  which   it  will  harm  no  one 
for  you    to  hear,  neither   you,    nor    your    future 
husband,   but  will  be  a  great  mercy  to  me.     In 
mercy,  in  common  pity  to  a  suffering  human  being, 
1  beg  of  you,  let  me  see  you,  and  say  this  to  you. 
In  mercy  to  one  who   is  suffering  all   the  agony  of 
hell  in  life,  which  I  know  I  deserve,  only  that  does 
not  make  it  any  easier  to  bear,  in  mercy,  give  me 
a  chance  to  speak  with  you.     I  don't  come  to  your 
house,  because  it  would  not  do,  would  not  be  fair 
to  you,  for  if  he  should  see  me  there,  it  would  be 
unpleasant  for  you.     So,  at  once,  as  soon  as  you 
receive  this,  come  to  the  rock  among  the  pines  in 
Central    Park,  and  give   me  five  minutes'  speech 
with  you.     It  will  be  as  great  a  mercy  as  if  you 
were  to  give  a  cup  of  water  to  a  man  dying  tortured 
by  thirst.     I  promise  to  say  nothing  which  it  will 
be  wrong  for  you  to  hear,  or  for  me  to  say.     Don't 
be  afraid  of  me.     I  shall  never  hurt  you  any  more. 


312  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THOKAH. 

I  shall  not  try  to  dissuade  you  from  marrying  him. 
On  the  contrary,  marry  him,  and  be  happy,  if  you 
can.     Any  thing   so   long   as  you   are    happy.     I 
dare  say  he  will  make  you  happy.  I  pray  God  that  he 
may.    Only,  for  pity's  sake,  you  who  have  a  kind  and 
pitiful  heart,  for  pity's  sake,  in  mercy  to  me,  for  the 
sake  of  the  love  that  was  between   us,  Christine, 
grant  me  this  one  request,  which  will  harm  no  living 
man  or  woman,  neither  him  nor  you,  nor  my  wife, 
and  come  to  the  rock   among  the  pines  in  Central 
Park.     I  shall  be  willing  to  die  after  I  have  seen 
you  and  spoken  to  you.     God  !  I  would  rather  die 
now  than  have  you  refuse.     Come  at  once.     I  shaL 
go  there  right  away,  immediately,  and   I  shall  wait 
there  until  you  come.     My  soul  is  burning  up  with 
something   which   I  must    say  to  you,  which  you 
must  let  me  say  to  you,  Christine,  and  you  can  not 
be  so  hard,  so  cruel,  as  not  to  come,  you  who  have 
such  a  tender,  kind  heart,  Christine.     My  agony  is 
so  great,  and  you  can  relieve  it  so  easily,  by  simply 
coming  for  five   minutes.     Look,  you  are  going  to 
give  him  your  whole   life — years  and  years.     Can't 
you  give  me  five  minutes  ?     He  can  afford  to  let 
me  have  five    minutes,  he  who  is  going  to  have 
years  and  years.    Come.    It  is  the  only  favor  I  shall 
ever  ask  of  you.     My  head  is  so  confused,  queer, 
as  though  all  my  wits  were  scattered,  I  don't  know 
how  to  put  it  so  as  to  move  you  to  come.     I  seem 
to  have  it  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  the  thing  to 
say  that  will  persuade  you,  and  then  when  I  try  to 
grasp  it,  and  write  it  down,   it  is  gone.     If  you 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH,  Z^i^Z 

understood  why  and  how  much  I  want  you  to  come, 
I  know  you  would  come.  I  do  not  believe  that 
you  can  be  so  hard  as  to  refuse  this  to  a  man  who 
is  broken-hearted,  and  almost  crazy  with  remorse, 
and  who  promises  by  all  that  is  sacred,  before  God, 
gives  you  his  solemn  word  of  honor,  not  to  say  a 
thing  which  it  would  be  wrong  for  you  to  hear,  who 
are  going  to  be  married,  or  for  me  to  say,  who  am 
married  already.  Gives  you  his  solemn  word  of 
honor.  Only,  before  you  are  married,  and  so  eter- 
nally separated  from  me,  worse  than  death,  to-mor- 
row, before  that,  come  and  let  me  speak  five  words. 
If  there  is  any  mercy  in  your  heart,  you  won't  dis- 
appoint me.  Come  at  once.  I  am  going  there 
right  away,  now,  to  wait  for  you.  The  rock  among 
the  pines.  You  know.  Christine  !  Christine  ! 
For  God's  sake  ! — Elias  Bacharach." 

This  note,  without  stopping  to  read  It  over,  he 
enveloped,  and  addressed.  Then,  in  great  haste, 
donning  his  hat,  he  left  his  room,  and,  too  impa- 
tient to  wait  for  the  elevator,  ran  down  stairs  to  the 
office,  where  he  bade  the  clerk  summon  a  messen- 
ger. 

**  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  clerk ;  and,  with  a  click- 
click-whir-r-r,  off  went  the  summons  from  the 
instrument.  After  which,  the  clerk  returned  to  the 
dirty  paper  novel  he  had  been  reading.  Elias  won- 
dered, in  a  dull,  hazy  way,  how  any  body  could 
have  the  heart  to  read  a  novel. 

Pending  the  messenger's  arrival,  he  paced  rest- 


314     THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH. 

lessly  hither  and  thither  about  the  broad,  marble- 
paved  entrance-hall  of  the  house,  and  tried  to  get 
the  better  of  that  queer,  confused  feeling  in  his 
head.  Tried  in  vain,  however  ;  for,  from  moment 
to  moment,  it  grew  more  pronounced  :  a  feeling  of 
congestion,  as  though  his  brain  was  solidifying, 
turning  into  stone  ;  as  though  gradually  and  simul- 
taneously his  different  senses  were  being  sealed  up. 

By  and  by,  as  if  through  a  deadening  medium  of 
some  sort,  as  if  through  a  thick  blanket,  he  heard 
a  lusty  young  voice  shout :  "  Call  ?  " 

He  looked.  As  if  through  a  veil,  he  saw  a  boy 
in  brass  buttons  standing  in  front  of  him. 

"  Yes,"  said  Elias  ;  and  it  required  a  great  effort 
of  will  to  concentrate  his  mind  sufficiently  to  find, 
and  to  regulate  his  organs  of  speech  sufficiently  to 
shape,  the  words  :  ''  Yes,  come  with  me." 

He  led  the  boy  to  the  corner  of  Seventh  Avenue 
and  Forty-eighth  Street.  The  sun  shone  brightly. 
There  was  no  wind.  But  it  was  very  cold.  Elias 
thought :  "  Perhaps  it  is  the  cold  that  makes  me 
feel  so  strangely.  I  feel  exactly  as  though  my 
brain  were  being  frozen,  as  hard  as  ice." 

When  they  had  reached  the  corner,  he  said: ''  Now, 
young  man,  I  want  you  to  take  this  note  to  this  ad- 
dress, No.  — ,  right  on  this  block — that  house,  over 
there,  just  beyond  the  lamp  post — and  I  want  you 
to  ask  to  see  the  lady  to  whom  it  is  directed — Miss 
Redwood — to  see  her  in  person  ;  do  you  under- 
stand ?  See  her  in  person,  and  deliver  this  note 
into  her  own  hands,  and  to  nobody  else.     And  then 


THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH  315 

you  come  back  here  to  this  corner,  where  I  shall 
wait  for  you.     Now,  hurry." 

*'  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  boy,  with  a  sagacious 
wink  ;  "  I  catch  on,  sir  ;  "  and  started  off. 

Elias  watched  him — down  and  across  the  street, 
and  up  her  stoop — till  he  vanished  in  her  vestibule. 
For  what  seemed  an  eternity,  the  boy  remained  out 
of  sight.  Then,  presently,  he  reappeared  ;  and  in  a 
minute  or  two  was  again  at  his  employer's  side. 

"Well,"  questioned  Elias,  "well,  did — did  you 
see  her  ?  " 

**Yes,  sir  ;  sawr  'er." 

It  made  Elias's  heart  beat  to  realize  that  this 
boy  had  just  stood  in  his  lady's  presence,  had 
looked  full  upon  her,  breathed  the  atmosphere 
that  she  glorified,  listened  to  the  celestial  music  of 
her  voice.  It  w^as  with  something  akin  to  reverence 
for  the  young  barbarian,  that  he  repeated  :  "  You 
saw  her,  you  actually  saw  her  !  " 

"  Well,  so  I  remarked,  sir,"  replied  the  boy. 

**  And —  and  you  gave  her  the  note  ?  " 

♦*  That's  what  I  done,  sir." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  Say  ?     She  didn't  say  nawthing." 

"  Nothing  at  all  ?     Not  a  word  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  here's  how  it  was.  I  says,  *  Redwood  ? ' 
and  she  says,  '  Yes  ;  '  and  I  says,  '  Sign  ;  '  and  shs 
signed  ;  and  that's  all  there  was  to  it." 

"  She  signed  ?  Have — have  you  got  her  signa- 
ture?" 

"Why,  certainly.     Here  you  are." 


^iS  THE    YOKE   OF   7  HE    T HO  RAH, 

The  boy  exhibited  a  bit  of  pink  paper,  upon 
which,  in  the  hand  that  he  knew  so  well,  Elias,  with 
a  breath-taking  thrill,  read  her  name  :  "  Christine 
Redwood."  He  took  the  paper  between  his 
fingers.  It  was  like  a  talisman.  Her  touch, 
scarcely  a  moment  since,  had  warmed  it,  her  face 
shadowed  it.  He  had  to  struggle  with  himself,  to 
keep  from  carrying  it  to  his  lips,  and  kissing  it, 
then  and  there. 

"  What — how  much — will  you  take  for  this 
paper  ? "     he  demanded  of  the  boy. 

"  Nawthing.     Got  to  return  it  to  the  office.'* 

"  I'll  give  you  a  dollar  for  it." 

"  Jimminy  !     You  must  want  it  pretty  bad." 

"  Well,  will  you  part  with  it  for  a  dollar  ?  "- 

The  boy  reflected  ;  wrestled  with  temptation  for 
an  instant  ;  in  the  end  said  :  **  Well,  sir,  all  is, 
you'll  have  to  sign  me  another  ;  that's  all,  sir. 
Let's  have  the  dollar."  He  produced  a  duplicate 
bit  of  pink  paper,  upon  which  Elias  executed  the 
only  forgery  of  which  he  was  ever  guilty.  Then  a 
bright  silver  dollar  changed  hands.  Our  hero 
pocketed  his  invaluable  purchase,  and  set  his  face 
toward  Central  Park. 


XXI. 


BACK  and  forth,  among  the  pine-trees  that  had 
been  witnesses  of  the   happiest  moments  of 
his  life  ;  over  the  carpet  of  frozen   pine-needles, 


THE    YOKE  OF   THE    THORAH.  317 

every  inch  of  which  was  holy  ground  to  him, 
because  her  foot  had  trodden  it  in  the  past ; 
through  the  intense  cold  and  stillness ;  Elias 
marched,  waiting  for  her  to  come.  Harder  than 
ever  was  the  frost  that  bound  and  benumbed  his 
senses ;  but  in  his  heart,  there  was  the  heat  of 
battle.  Hope  and  doubt  struggled  together  th€^*c, 
in  mortal  combat. 

At  one  instant,  doubt  getting  the  upper  hand,  he 
would  cry  :  "  Will  she  come  ?  No,  God  help  me,  it 
is  most  unlikely.  I  may  as  well  make  up  my  mind 
to  it.     She  will  not  come." 

Next  instant,  hope  inflaming  him :  "  She  will 
come.  I  know  she  will.  She  has  a  kind  and 
tender  heart.  She  can't  find  it  in  her  to  refuse. 
She  will  come  ;  and  she  will  let  me  tell  her  how 
I  love  her,  and  how  I  have  suffered  ;  and  she  will 
soften  toward  me,  and  forgive  me.  And  perhaps 
her  love  for  me  will  come  back — and  overpower 
her — and  make  her  forget  every  thing  else — and 
then — she — perhaps — oh,  merciful  God  !  if — if  she 
should  consent ! " 

Thus  he  alternated  between  hell  and  heaven. 

If  he  had  been  enabled  to  penetrate  but  a  very 
little  way  into  the  future,  I  suspect,  his  thoughts 
and  his  emotions  would  have  been  of  a  quite  dif- 
ferent order. 

"  I  must  have  been  here  at  least  an  hour  by  this 
time,"  he  said.  "  It  must  be  almost  time  for  hef 
to  get  here." 

With  stiffened  fingers  he  drew  out  his  watch. 


3l8  THE    YOKE   OF    THE    T HO  RAH. 

Having  looked  at  it  :  "  Yes  ;  she  may  get  here 
any  minute  now."  Oh,  how  the  prospect  made  his 
heart  throb  !  "  She  may  be  not  further  than  a  few 
yards  away. — Ah  ! — Hark  !  I — I  hear  a  footstep. 
I  swear,  I  hear  a  footstep.  Is  it  she  ?  It  comes 
down  the  path  in  this  direction.  God — God  grant 
that  it  is  she.     Nearer — nearer — nearer " 

What  was  this  ?  Bending  forward,  every  muscle 
strained,  every  nerve  on  tension,  to  follow  the 
footstep  that  he  seemed  to  hear — suddenly  his  voice 
failed  him,  and  expired  in  a  low,  guttural  murmur ; 
suddenly  a  dreadful  spasm  contracted  all  his  feat- 
ures ;  his  face  flushed  scarlet,  then  paled  as  white 
as  marble  ;  his  arm  flew  up  into  the  air,  the  fingers 
clutching  at  emptiness  ;  foam  flecked  his  lips  ;  a 
groan  burst  from  his  throat  ;  he  tottered  ;  he  fell 
headlong  to  the  earth  ;  a  brief,  horrible  convulsion, 
a  protracted  shudder  ;  and  he  lay  there,  rigid, 
immobile,  as  if  dead. 

The  footstep  that  he  had  heard  passed  on  into 
silence. 

The  pine-trees  that  sheltered  the  rock,  screen©d 
him  from  sight.  This  he  had  used  to  account  one 
of  the  chief  advantages  of  the  spot.  Was  it  an 
advantage  now  ?  Perhaps  so  ;  but  he  would  be  very 
bold  indeed,  who  should  dare  to  say  yes  for  certain. 

The  cold  settled  down  upon  him,  and  wrapped 
him  in  its  stony  embrace.  The  afternoon  wore 
away.  The  daylight  faded  into  twilight,  the  twi- 
light into  night.  And  still  Elias  lay  there,  alon" 
with  the  deadly  cold 


THE    YOKE   OF   THE    THORAH.  3^9 

In  the  Bacharach  house,  on  Stuyvesant  Square, 
the  family  were  at  dinner,  with  Elias  for  their  topic. 
Where  was  he  now,  and  what  doing  ?  they  wondered. 
Enjoying  himself,  they  hoped. 

By  and  by  the  moon  came  up,  and  wove  a  silvery 
garment  about  him.  The  next  day's  sun  came  up, 
and  bathed  him  in  fire,  and  arrayed  him  in  cloth-of- 
gold.  The  sun  soared  higher  and  higher.  In  the 
distance  a  church  clock  struck  eleven.  She  was 
being  married   now,  probably.     Elias  did  not  stir. 

The  wind  veered  around  into  the  south-west,  and 
the  temperature  grew  tolerable  again.  Then  some 
children  ventured  out,  to  play  in  the  park.  Up  to 
the  top  of  this  rock  they  clambered.  Next  moment, 
in  gleeful  excitement,  they  were  calling  to  their 
nurse,  whom  they  had  left  below  in  the  pathway  : 
"  Come,  and  look  at  the  man  asleep  !  " 

The  New  York  papers  on  Thursday  morning 
contained  two  announcements,  divided  from  each 
other  only  by  a  thin  black  line,  thus : 

MARRIED. 
HosMER — Redwood. — In  this  city,  on  February 
1 8th,  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Frederick  Shepard,  Robert 
Emory  Hosmer  to  Christine  Redwood. 


DIED. 

Bacharach. — In  this  city,  on  Tuesday,  Febru- 
ary   17th,    suddenly,    Elias,   beloved    husband  of 


320  THE    YOKE   OF  THE    THORAH. 

Matilda  Morgenthau,  and  only  son  of  the  late 
Abraham  Bacharach,  M.  D.,  in  the  twenty-eighth 
year  of  his  age.  The  Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord 
hath  taken  away  ;  blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord. 
New  Orleans  papers  please  copy. 


THE  END. 


Xlhc  Rose  Series 

Ht  35  cents 


No.  ic     Geofiry^s  Victory,   by   Mrs.    Georgie 
Sheldon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  that  has  been  produced  by 
this  well-known  author. 

No.  2.     Dr.  Jack,  by  St.  George  Rathborne. 

A  book  famous  the  vorld  over.  This  is  the  story 
that  established  Mr.  Rathborne' s  fame. 

No.  3.     Bam  Wildfire,  by  Helen  B.   Mathers. 

This  story  has  been  the  subject  of  favorable  com- 
ment by  the  press  of  Great  Britain.  They  unite  in  de- 
claring it  to  be  Miss  Mathers'  greatest  work. 

No.  4.     Queen  Bess,  by  Mrs.  Georgie  Sheldon. 

Beyond  a  doubt,  one  of  the  very  best  American  nov- 
els ever  written. 

No.  5.     Miss    Fairfax    of  Virginia,   by    St. 

George  Rathborne. 

One  of  the  latest  and  most  popular  of  this  author's 
works. 

No.  6.     A    Difficult    Matter,    by    Mrs.    Emily 
LovETT  Cameron. 

A  splendid  work.  Concerning  this  book  Black  and 
White  says:  "We  have  a  few  writers  whose  books 
arouse  in  us  certain  expectations  which  are  always  ful- 
filled. Such  a  writer  is  Mrs.  Lovett  Cameron,  and  her 
story,  'A  Difficult  Matter,'  does  not  make  us  change 
our  opinion.  Mrs.  Lovett  Cameron's  admirers  will  not 
be  disappointed  in  'A  Difficult  Matter.*  It  is  a  plea- 
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2C  


Cbe  Rose  Sertee— Continued 


No.  7.     A  Yale  Man,  by  Robert  Lee  Tyler. 

Thousands  have  read  this  book.  Thousands  more 
should  and  wilL    Absorbing  from  start  to  finish. 

No.  8.     Her  Faithful  Knight,  by   Gertrude 
Warden. 

This  author  is  well  known  as  one  of  the  foremost 
writers  of  interesting  and  entertaining  fiction.  We  con- 
sider this  to  be  about  the  best  story  she  has  ever  pro- 
duced. 

No.  9.    A   Gentleman   from   Gascony,    by 

Bicknell  Dudley. 

Here  we  have  a  romance  of  the  same  order  as  Du- 
mas* "Three  Musketeers'*  and  Stanley  Weyman's 
"A  Gentleman  of  France.** 

The  San  Francisco  Chronicle  says:  '*  *  A  Gentle- 
man from  Gascony/  by  Bicknell  Dudley,  while  it  at 
once  recalls  our  dear  old  friends  of  the  'Three  Mus- 
keteers,* is  a  bright,  clever,  well  written  and  entertain- 
ing story.  The  book  gives  a  graphic  and  vivid  picture 
of  one  of  the  great  historic  epochs  of  France." 

The  Baltimore  American  says:  ** 'A  Gentleman 
from  Gascomr,*  by  Bicknell  Dudley.  This  is  a  tale  of 
the  time  of  Charles  IX.,  the  story  opening  in  the  year 
1572.  Raoul  de  Puycadere  is  of  a  noble  family,  but  his 
possessions  have  been  squandered  by  his  ancestors,  and 
he  leaves  for  Paris  to  better  his  position  at  court.  He 
arrives  on  the  eve  of  the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew, 
and  his  ladv  love,  Gabrielle,  having  heard  of  the  con- 
templated killing,  binds  a  sign  on  his  arm  to  protect 
him.  By  g^eat  good  luck  he  is  made  equerry  to  the  King 
of  Navarre,  and  between  his  duties  as  equerry  and  his 
lovemaking  passes  through  many  exciting  adventures." 

No.  10.    A  King:  and  a  Coward,  by  Effie 
Adelaide  Rowlands. 

This  is  a  charming  love  story  of  great  interest  and 
dramatic  strength.  It  was  recently  published  in  serial 
form,  and  was  so  unanimously  approved  that  it  has  been 
brought  out  in  book  form  at  the  special  request  of  a 
large  number  of  our  patrons. 

8C 


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